


Stone Hearts and Halls

by appleapple



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, First Time, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleapple/pseuds/appleapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli is injured in an accident rebuilding the city of Minas Tirith.  When Legolas arrives he finds that not all is well in Aragorn's kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he awoke it was with an uneasiness he had not felt in years.

Something ill had happened in the night; of that he was certain. His mind turned to his loved ones, far away, even as his body went through the motions of bathing and dressing. 

“My Lord,” Autherias said, at the doorway to his room. “A rider has come. From Minas Tirith.”

He nodded, pushing aside despair. He was not surprised. It only now remained to hear what had happened. 

“I will come,” he said, before Autherias could offer to bring the messenger before him. It was not so very far from Ithilien to Minas Tirith, after all.

“Prince Legolas.” The messenger was a Man he did not know, dirty and travel-stained from hard riding. Even as he bowed low Legolas forestalled his courtesies.

“Tell me what has happened.”

The Man looked up. “King Aragorn bade me come, my Lord. It is Lord Gimli.”

Legolas felt his breath catch.

“He lives,” the messenger said, nervously, seeing the expression on the Elf-Lord’s face. “He was injured. In a fall--”

“Forgive me; I dare not tarry,” Legolas replied. Already his horse had been brought before him, and he spared Autherias only a look of gratitude before mounting.

The beloved woods of Ithilien were soon behind him, and he was set upon the road to Minas Tirith. Hours to reach it, even at swift Elvish paces, and he did not know if he could bear it. Of Gimli, the extent of his injury, he could not allow himself to think. Yet he saw Gimli before him, in his mind, as he had been at their last meeting.

“I wish you would take care,” Legolas had said to him. “You are tired, mellonamin. You take on too much.”

They sat together in one of the beautiful walled terraces of Ithilien that Legolas and his people had built. Gimli held his pipe delicately in one hand, and his eyes were starry and far away, already dreaming of the next project to be completed, Legolas supposed. From time to time his arm grazed Legolas, if he moved or reached for his glass.

He took the pipe carefully from between his teeth to speak. “All the evil that was done in a day’s work we take a year to undo. And there were many dark days, Legolas. There is much beauty in the world, and much still to be rebuilt.”

“But does it all need to be rebuilt by you?” Legolas asked. He sounded petulant, even to his own ears.

Gimli smiled and reached for him. There was a precise cough at the entryway behind them; Burin, Legolas thought, and sighed inwardly.

“We await you, Lord Gimli. All are ready.”

“Thank you, Burin,” Gimli said. He tipped out his pipe and rose. Burin bowed and withdrew gracefully, leaving them alone once more. 

Legolas looked at him sadly.

“Do not despair, my friend,” Gimli said with gentleness, laying his hands upon Legolas’s shoulders. They were much of a height while Legolas remained seated. Close enough to kiss, if such a thing were permitted.

“We will be together again soon.”

“Your face is tired,” Legolas replied, daring to touch that much loved face. There were lines there he had not seen before.

“And yours is ever fair,” Gimli quipped. “Farewell, my friend. It will not be so long, until you are with me in Minas Tirith again.”

No, not so long. Not two months since Gimli had left Ithilien with a company of Dwarves, to join others that were hard at work rebuilding Aragorn’s white city. But Gimli had been whole and healthy then. In what condition would Legolas find him when he reached the gates of Minas Tirith?

 

 

The sun was high when a lone Elf rider approached the city on horseback. He was well known to the guards, and they would not have stopped him except for the orders of the King.

But by the time the Captain Ergen of the city Guard had come down from the wall the Elf was gone, and the Man cursed to himself, hoping he would not catch grief from the King for failing to carry out his orders. 

He did not catch up with the Elf Prince until Legolas had reached the Houses of Healing. He stood by his horse, quivering as one in the depths of madness or fever, and the Captain hesitated to approach him so strange did he look.

“My Lord Legolas,” he said respectfully. “King Aragorn bade me greet you.”

Legolas brushed his hair back with one smooth hand. “Where is Gimli? He is not here.”

If Ergen was surprised by the Elf’s brusque tone he did not show it. “He is in the rooms of the palace, my lord. His own healers judged it best if he be moved not far. Forgive me, that is all I know. Please, allow me to escort you to the palace.”

Legolas nodded woodenly, and remounted his horse. They rode together in silence, and the Captain was glad when they reached the palace doors and the King was there to take charge of his guest. He had never known the Elf to act so strange, and it unnerved him. He returned to his post quickly, and when his second asked funningly for gossip he answered so crossly that none of the others dared speak to him the rest of that day.

“Legolas,” Aragorn said, coming forward as hostlers came to take the Elf’s horse away.

“Bring me to him, Aragorn,” Legolas said in Elvish. 

Aragorn looked at him in grave surprise. He had never heard his friend speak that way before--certainly not to him.

“He is well, Legolas,” he said, wondering if the message had been misunderstood. “He will recover--”

“I wish only to see him with my own eyes; please, take me to him.”

Aragorn clearly wished to say more, but he nodded his acquiescence and led the way through the palace. Legolas would not look at him, or speak to him, and Aragorn was deeply troubled. He would not speak again now, after being so rebuffed; he could only hope that Legolas would be relieved by Gimli’s condition and have kinder words for him then.

“Through here--his kin are with him. Legolas--” and he reached out to take the Elf’s hand, when his friend would have turned away from him. “If I have done aught to offend or hurt you, only tell me and I will make amends. We need not speak now; I see that you are troubled. But I love you, and I will be grieved indeed if you are offended with me.”

Legolas inhaled a long breath. “So, too, does Gimli love you,” he said. “And there is nothing he would not do for his friends. But I wish--for my sake--that you would remember that he is mortal.”

On those words the Elf left him, and the King could only gaze after him and wonder.

Elessar had spoken truly it seemed; three of Gimli’s kin sat near him but it was no deathbed they attended, and hardly even a sickbed if their jokes and laughter were any indication. For a moment his heart rose, but looking upon Gimli, with his head and arm bound, lying still in the bed he could not be comforted.

The Dwarves rose when they noticed him, and they greeted him with respect, as all of Gimli’s Dwarves did. Gimli would tolerate no insult to his dearest friend and more than one Dwarf had suffered his wrath before learning that lesson.

The two younger Dwarves left right away, after a glance from their elder, and Legolas was left alone with the white-haired Dwarf, Azagh, whom he knew only vaguely.

“It is good that you have come,” Azagh said by way of greeting. “He has been asking for you.”

“He has?” Legolas said, looking at once to the bed. “Is he well then? He can speak?”

“Aye, aye. It will take time but he will recover. You will see.”

Legolas let out a long, long breath and sank to his knees, his head bowing forward. If Azagh found this behavior strange he did not show it by word or deed. He only fetched the Elf-Lord a glass of water, humming quietly to himself. 

After Legolas had drunk it he asked softly, “What happened?”

“We were working upon the western wall. Gimli was at the top of the scaffolding when it collapsed; some of the rubble fell upon him. He has the head-wound: so you see. He will be strange for a few days, disoriented like, but he will recover.”

“You are certain?” Legolas demanded eagerly, “He has taken no lasting harm?”

Azagh shook his head, quietly confident and Legolas was comforted. 

“Dwarves have hard heads.”

“Often have I had occasion to note it! But never had so much reason to rejoice in it.”

Azagh grinned, as if acknowledging the compliment, and continued, “We were made to dwell in caves, Prince Legolas. If a cave-in was all it took to kill a Dwarf, there’d be perishing few of us around!” More seriously he added, “It takes many such injuries to do a lasting harm. And Gimli has been fortunate; this may be his first such as close as I can judge.”

“You comfort me, Azagh. You comfort me. I thank you.”

“Nay, it is I who should thank you, my Lord! Now that you have come, you may have the care of this prickly burden, who cries out for you, even cursing those who would bind his wounds and bid him lie still.” Azagh’s eyes were dancing, and Legolas did not know whether to laugh or flush. What was the old Dwarf implying?

“It will be my honor to care for him,” he said.

Azagh chuckled again. “Your honor, yes, and your burden because he will have no other now that you are here! I wish you joy of him.”

“What must I do?”

“Only keep him quiet and calm. The bandages need not be changed until tomorrow, and I will return before then to see how he does. He should not be feverish, and do not worry if he asks you the same question over again, and does not understand your answers. That is the head-wound; it will be better in a few days.”

Legolas looked upon Gimli with concern, but he nodded. 

“Oh, and one more thing, my Lord.”

“Yes?” 

“No vigorous activity--you know--for a few weeks at least!” Azagh spoke too slyly for Legolas to mistake his meaning, and the Elf blushed furiously. Was that what they--Gimli’s Dwarves--thought? How had they come by such a notion!

He was too discomfited to answer, and Azagh was nearly out of ear’s reach when Legolas called out to him.

“Azagh!”

“Yes?”

“There is one thing that troubles me. How came the scaffolding to collapse? From what Gimli has told me, I would think such a thing all but impossible for Dwarvish construction.”

Azagh smiled, but it was a cold, pleasureless smile. “That is a riddle indeed, my Lord. If you find the answer please tell me, because I can assure you that _all _our people would like to know.”__

__He left then, and Legolas felt a chill of evil upon his heart. The two Dwarves Azagh had dismissed had not been companions, but bodyguards._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Espionage! 
> 
> Mizim is referred to as 'daughter' although masculine pronouns are used, under the assumption that in addition to dressing and acting like males when they go abroad female Dwarves are usually referred to as males as well.

Obur and Mizim--young, tough-headed, burly warriors--stood in the stone corridor waiting for Azagh. When he exited the sickroom they looked at him attentively, waiting for orders.

“You shall remain here,” Azagh said in Dwarvish. “If the King should remark upon it say only that you are Lord Gimli’s honor guard. I shall send others to relieve you this evening. Leave not the door unguarded.”

“Surely you do not leave our Lord alone with none but that princeling to safeguard him!” Mizim protested. Obur frowned but said nothing.

Azagh gave the young Dwarf a steely look. “He has the right,” he said simply. “You are young, Mizim, and hot-headed, so I will overlook it now, but do not speak of Prince Legolas so again. Elsewise you will be sent back with the next caravan to the Iron Hills.”

“He is but an Elf,” Mizim replied in a surly tone.

“Aye, and have you forgotten the part he played in the War of the Ring? Yes, he is an Elf, and a deadly warrior, and beloved of our Lord. What have you to say to that, Mizim, daughter of Norder?”

But Mizim had nothing to say to that, and only scowled into his beard.

“But does he know the danger?” Obur asked. 

Azagh frowned. “The Elf is canny. He suspected treachery right away. We can trust him to be on his guard.”

“Do we take him into our confidences, then?” Obur sounded skeptical, but Azagh knew he would give way if called to.

“I do not know,” he admitted truthfully. “Perhaps not just yet, when we know so very little.”

Obur nodded. “Go then, Azagh. We shall guard the door.”

“Be on your guard. I fear there are few we can trust, at present.”

He left the two young Dwarves at their post, his feet following a familiar path through the King’s palace. He had been one of the first to come south with Gimli, three years ago, and in that time he had come almost to think of Minas Tirith as his home. It grieved him more than he would admit to the others to think that there were some in Minas Tirith who were not so friendly.

For one who had wandered much of his life, who had never fit quite smoothly into the niche carved for him by his kin, coming to Minas Tirith had felt strangely apt. He found beauty in the city, and it had pleased him to walk in a place where Dwarves and Elves and Men were friends, like something out of one of the old tales. He was not so very old for a Dwarf, but old enough, and here he had found at last a work that could sustain him, and to which he could bring the sum of experience wrought from a hardscrabble life. All Dwarves wanted to leave their mark on the world, and supervising the rebuilding of this beautiful city, which he felt in his bones would endure even after the time of Dwarves, had brought him the satisfaction of craft that had eluded him as wandering tinkerer and fourth engineer of the Iron Hills.

He had come south not for any high-minded reasons--not for love of his young cousin, whom he barely knew, or to fulfill the debt to Men that King Thorin had spoken of. Merely it had been because he was tired of listening to orders from Dwarves young enough to be his sons, and in Gimli he had seen that flicker of strangeness that burdened his own soul. Aye, there were still Dwarves who craved adventure, who longed to do something other than burrow deeper into the halls of their fathers. For good or ill he had not outgrown it, as his mother had once prophesied.

He had not expected to find happiness and pride of place in the south, and yet he had. For the first time in his life he was content, and he knew whom he had to thank for that. He had come to love Gimli with a loyalty and affection he had never felt for King Dáin or King Thorin, and he would do whatever lay in his power to protect his Lord.

For there could be no mistake. An attempt had been made on Gimli’s life, and he would find the culprit or else die in the endeavor.

 

 

Burin already waited in Azagh’s quarters. Two fat housecats lay about the room, which was untidy with blueprints, tools, discarded teacups, and ornaments in various stages of manufacture.

Azagh moved aside one of the cats, which protested this rough treatment, and sat across from the other Dwarf. Burin could rightly be called Gimli’s second; certainly he attended him on all his travels, whether to the Glittering Caves, Ithilien, Minas Tirith, or the Iron Hills. But they had not needed to speak to agree that Azagh would lead until Gimli was well: he was the older, and he knew both Minas Tirith and the ways of Men better. 

“Well, what news?”

“Still we move the rubble. We have found nothing yet. The work will be finished tomorrow, I believe.”

Azagh grunted, stroking the cat absently. Too much to hope for this early, perhaps, but he was disappointed that no obvious sign of sabotage had been discovered.

“What of the Elf?” asked Burin.

“He is with Gimli now. I never saw an Elf look so ill. The messenger left only a little before dawn--the Elf must have come on wings to have gotten here so soon.”

Burin’s face was implacable; he did not entirely approve of Legolas, though he tolerated him for Gimli’s sake. “Do we tell him what we know?”

“Already, he suspects. But he is preoccupied now. I will not go to him, until we learn more.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“If you had seen him with Gimli, just now, you would not dare ask that question.”

“Do not speak to me as if I am one of the children,” Burin snapped. “You have too much love for the Elf, Azagh, and too little for your own people.”

Azagh gazed at him coolly. “It is not my regard for the Elf which matters,” he replied. “You are closer to Gimli than I, aye and to Legolas too. You of all people should know that.”

Burin scowled and rose to pace the room. “I do not know if he can be trusted. He loves the King--”

“Say not that you think the King had aught to do with this!” Azagh said, truly shocked.

“I do not know who can be trusted, Azagh. That is the problem. Yesterday I would have said we had no enemies here: today all is changed.”

Azagh sighed. “I never thought to see such dark days returned.”

“You know this city well, Azagh. You must suspect something.”

Azagh stroked his beard. “If there is discontent it has been hidden far from my sight. Always when I walk abroad the people are friendly to me. We have had no bad dealings, not even in the early days after the War.”

“Then we are back where we started,” Burin said, his back to the other Dwarf. “We must hope the diggers find some clue. I need not remind you we speak not of this to the King, at present.”

“No. None but our own people know.”

“And the Elf?”

“The Elf has his own claim. We will take what comes, from that direction.”

 

 

Legolas sat in a chair by Gimli’s bedside. He held Gimli’s uninjured hand in his own, and though he knew but little of healing magic he murmured what prayers and words of comfort he knew, as much for his own sake as the Dwarf’s. 

Gimli seemed to sleep, and but for his stillness Legolas could almost believe it was a natural sleep, not one brought on by illness. In spite of Azagh’s remarks Gimli had not awoken yet, or spoken, and Legolas did not know whether to take this as a sign of good or ill.

The anxiety he felt on his friend’s behalf had fallen to a level he could tolerate, but he could not be easy. It was nearly nightfall when he heard a familiar footstep upon the hall outside, and the King entered with food and drink. He set down the tray on a table nearby, and pulled another chair close to Legolas.

“How is he?” Aragorn asked.

“Azagh says he will recover. He has not woken, since I have been here.”

Very gently the Man reached out his hands to touch the Dwarf’s face, and feel his pulse. “I think you should trust Azagh. Rest is the best thing for him, now.”

Legolas nodded. In spite of himself he was comforted by his friend’s presence. “Forgive me, Aragorn, for my harsh words.”

“No, it is I who ask for your forgiveness. Only I would know what it is that I have done, to offend you so.”

Legolas shook his head. “You have not done so. I spoke without thinking.”

“You blame me for Gimli’s injury?”

“No…but I told you, when last we spoke, that he was stretched too thin. He cannot be Lord of the Glittering Caves, and rebuild Helm’s Deep, and oversee the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. Not without overtaxing himself.”

Aragorn tilted his head. “Gimli is his own master, Legolas. I have not asked him to do this.”

“No,” Legolas agreed softly. “But you know he is stubborn. I would ask your help in checking him.”

Aragorn hesitated. “In truth, I have already tried to do so,” he said slowly. “My thoughts are closer to your own than you guess. But he has not heeded me, and I did not know how to say more without giving offense.”

Legolas bowed his head. “Truly, I am sorry then. I had no call to speak to you as I did.”

But Aragorn would not accept his apologies, and insisted that he had taken no offense. The nature of their long friendship was such that Legolas was soon roused from his grief, and they were laughing and exchanging old stories when a servant came in at last to light the candles.

“Come and eat now. Do you take no rest?”

“I need none.”

Aragorn poured out wine for them both. “Then when you finish, go and speak to Azagh,” he said. “I will watch over Gimli until you return.”

“Azagh said he would return later tonight.”

“Yes. But I would have you speak to him privately. I think he may tell you more, alone, in his own rooms.”

Legolas looked at his friend curiously. “You know something.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I know only what I know of Dwarves; that they are secretive, and hold their secrets dear.”

“I will not spy for you, Aragorn,” Legolas said sternly.

“I do not ask you to. It is for your own sake I ask you to go. And his. Something happened last night that the Dwarves do not wish to be known. I have lived alongside them long enough to know when there is something they do not wish spoken of, to other ears. What it may be I do not know, but in my heart...in my heart I fear some evil. I would not have any dwell in my city, Legolas.”

Legolas contemplated this in silence before replying. “Thank you, Aragorn,” he said at last. “If I am taken into their confidence, then I must keep it, if they bid me to.”

“I do not ask you to break any vow,” Aragorn said quietly. He looked up to meet Legolas’s eyes, and his own were fierce. “But if there is justice to be dealt out, believe that I will not hesitate to do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback so far! It is very much appreciated!

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Azagh called between bites of his dinner, expecting Mzagal or Burin.

“My Lord Legolas,” Azagh said, rising in surprise. “What is it? Has something happened?”

“No. There was no change when I left him. The King sits with him now,” Legolas replied, not missing the note of panic in the Dwarf’s voice.

“Ah, that is well,” Azagh said in relief. “For a moment I thought--but, please sit. If you can find a place! Can I offer you refreshment? I don’t have much, I’m afraid...tea? Wine?”

Legolas looked around him curiously while Azagh searched for a clean glass. There were papers, tools, mechanical objects, and odd devices that covered every flat surface. To his eyes it seemed like nothing more than a wreckage of debris, but he knew there must be some order to it.

“What are all these things?” he asked, picking up an odd mechanical item and turning it over in his hands.

“Oh, bits of this and that. I find it helps my mind to solve a big problem, if I’m working on a smaller one.”

Azagh picked up a sheaf of blueprints as if to illustrate his point, then shoved them aside to make a clear spot on the table.

“That, now, is a little toy soldier for one of the children.” 

He took it from Legolas’s hands and began to wind it, then picked up a screwdriver (Legolas noticed he did not need to search for it--it found his hand as easily as one of his own hands might find the handle of his knife in the darkness), adjusted something here, turned something there, and then placed it on the table so that it began to walk towards the Elf.

“Wonderful,” Legolas laughed. His keen eyes traveled the room. “You must love children.”

“Aye,” Azagh said, smiling. “I never had any of my own. But there are many children in Minas Tirith. I have a bit of a reputation among them now--you should see the little beggars, they stop by every morning to see if I’ve finished anything new.”

“You give them all to the same children then?”

“Oh no, no, they are not so greedy, my little friends. Or perhaps they are, but they know better than to ask. No, they only want to see what new things I’ve made, and fight amongst themselves for half an hour for the honor of playing with them. After that I try to give each to a new child--there are many, you know, with little enough. The War took much of this city’s wealth, and it will take time to rebuild that.”

“You do not charge money for them then?”

Azagh screwed up his face and shook his head, as if tasting a bitter food.

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you think that is strange, for a Dwarf?”

“Not so strange.”

“Well, you must know, really it is they who do me the favor. You are an archer, Legolas, are you not? Well then, imagine if every time you had a niggling little problem in your brain you must carve arrows. Also you do it in the evenings, when you are tired, to relax and refresh yourself, also whenever your hands are idle. Now imagine you have nothing to shoot. See how the arrows pile up in your room!”

Legolas laughed. “I see. But not all these things are toys.”

“No, bits of this and that. I was a tinkerer, you know, for many years. There are few things in this life I haven’t turned my hands to, at one time or another. But you did not come to speak of my little hobby, I think.”

“No,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “I would have the truth about what happened. The whole truth.”

Azagh nodded, looking into the distance as though he had expected this. He seemed to come to a decision.

“There is little enough to tell, at the moment. But yes, I will tell you all. You have the right.”

“Was someone responsible for Gimli’s injury?”

“Oh, yes,” Azagh said, and his eyes--so warm and friendly a moment ago--were cold and hard now. “I think I can with certainty say that someone tried to murder Gimli, and a tidy job they did of it too. They did not count on the hardiness of Dwarves; but for that we might be building his tomb at present.”

_“Who?”_

“That, I wish I knew. It is Gimli’s custom to inspect the work that is done each day. We have spotters that check the scaffolding and supports three times a day--at sunrise, when we break for midday, and at the end of work each day. I trust those Dwarves; they do their work well. So someone must have come between the time the scaffolding had last been checked, and the time Gimli came last night to look over the work.”

“Who had access?”

“All the city,” Azagh said, shaking his head. “Any could have come, I’m afraid. We have never had any problem before, and so there was no reason to secure the site. But I can tell you that it was done very cleverly, or Gimli would have noticed in spite of the darkness. He was raised in the mines, and he takes no foolish risks. The supports were weakened in such a way that they would bear his weight until he reached the top of the wall. Only then was the scaffolding allowed to fall--and the support for the wall.”

“You suspect the wall was sabotaged as well?”

“I know it,” Azagh said. He thumped the table with his hand. “Dwarvish supports do not fail! One, at least, was tampered with. We are uncovering the rubble now, so we shall see, but I do not believe the wall would have held even that long if all three had been damaged.”

“But you have found no evidence of this so far?”

“Not yet,” Azagh admitted. “But it is early.”

“May I go to the work site?”

“Yes,” Azagh said, hesitating. “But I can assure you that I will tell you anything that happens. Would it not be better if you returned to Lord Gimli?”

“Gimli is safe while Aragorn is with him,” Legolas replied.

Azagh considered and discarded a dozen excuses, knowing they would hold no sway with the Elf.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Let us go to the work site.” _Though I dread what Mzagal will say,_ he added privately to himself.

 

 

Lanterns had been hung so that the work need not stop, even at this late hour, and the square the Dwarves had sectioned off was as busy as a hive. Legolas saw dozens of Dwarves, some he knew and some that were strange to him, all busy moving rubble, sorting stone and rock into different areas, and speaking rapid guttural Khuzdul in tones too low to overhear.

Two Dwarves that had been speaking nearby fell silent at their approach, and the one who looked the senior stopped to frown at them.

He was rather stout, though not fat, and his hair was of a luxurious deep brown that gleamed in the lantern-light. It was ornately braided to keep out of the way while he worked, but apart from that he wore only work clothes with no touch of finery.

“This is no place for an Elf, Azagh,” he said sharply, not even sparing a glance for Legolas.

“Prince Legolas,” Azagh said with false cheer, “Meet Mzagal, our foreman. Mzagal, I do not believe you have met Prince Legolas before.”

Mzagal crossed his arms over his chest, blocking entrance to the worksite. 

“I come before you not as an Elf,” Legolas said, watching him steadily, “But as friend of Gimli. I know you are his friends as well. You are doing all you can for him, and I wish to help.”

Mzagal scowled deeply, but stepped aside. Azagh sighed in relief. Legolas had, wittingly or not, said the only thing that could have swayed Mzagal. He was not a Dwarf that could be bent to the wills of others, and he could be cross and intractable at the best of times.

No one blamed him for the sabotage done to the wall, but he was foreman. He had borne the responsibility of it these past six months and more, choosing himself the placement of rocks, selecting only the most prudent and meticulous of Dwarves to work on its construction. Now his great work sat in ruins. He was still foreman, but he oversaw not the great Western Wall of Minas Tirith, but the clean up of a pile of stones and rubble. 

He had sneered at those that had been ill-advised enough to offer him comfort.

Legolas was rapidly scanning the site, trying to understand the work and see it not as an Elf, but as a Dwarf. He turned to look at Azagh and Mzagal to ask a question, but remained silent when he saw their faces.

It was an unguarded moment of sorrow, particularly for Mzagal. There he caught some understanding of what this had meant to the Dwarf. It was instinct that made him reach out and touch the foreman’s shoulder, although he heard Azagh’s hiss of unease.

“It will be rebuilt,” he said steadily. “Fall down seven times, get up eight.”

Mzagal barked out a laugh of surprise. “That is no Elvish saying, by my beard!”

“No. I have often heard Gimli say it.”

“Aye,” Mzagal said, his expression softening. “Aye. Very well. You wish to work, do you? Leave us, Azagh, I am sure you have your own work to attend to.”

Azagh sighed in frustration, looking between the Elf and the Dwarf. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“Aye,” Mzagal said, taking him firmly by the shoulder and walking him away from the wall. 

“This is your own kingdom,” Legolas said with the hint of a smile when Azagh had gone.

“You had better believe it, lad. No fools do I allow in here. This is close work, and if you can’t do it well and quickly there’s no place for you, friend of Gimli’s or no.”

“I understand. Show me what to do, and I will do it.”

With obvious misgiving, Mzagal explained the work, their system for sorting the stones and rocks by size, and the hidden signs for which they searched. 

“Azagh has told you the truth.” It was not a question. 

Legolas nodded.

“Very well, then,” Mzagal said, and left him.

Legolas worked without weariness, moving precisely among the heaps of stone. It was tedious work, but not tiring for an Elf, and he could go places on his light feet where the others dared not tread. 

From time to time Mzagal called out to one of the Dwarves, offering instruction or advice. His sharp eyes missed nothing, but he had no cause to rebuke Legolas. They had reached the level of the scaffolding, so now there were broken planks and struts to sort through among the rubble. It was slow and fatiguing work, and Legolas saw the Dwarves stop from time to time to rest and drink water. 

He did not stop. Hours passed, and he thought it would be dawn soon.

“What do they say about me?” Legolas asked Mzagal. The foreman had come to bring him water, his steps surefooted and careful amidst the rubble. It was the first time the Elf had stopped moving in hours.

“Ah, you caught that, did you? Forbidden to speak Khuzdul to strangers. They will be punished for that. Though how came you to recognize the Khuzdul word for Elf I wonder--!”

Legolas smiled and waited.

“They said the Elf works tirelessly. And that you do.” Mzagal took the cup back and returned to his post.

Nearby some Dwarves were about to shift a great pile of wood, and something within caught Legolas’s eye. 

“Wait!” he cried out, and in a flash he was at the top of the pile.

“My Lord, it is not safe, even for you!” one of the Dwarves cried out in alarm.

Legolas reached into the pile to grab hold of something, even as the mountain of wood crumbled beneath him. His feet found traction where there was none, and he heard a great groan rise up from the company. All eyes were upon him, but he rode the fall safely to the ground, landing lightly in a crouch only a few feet from Mzagal, who stood firm with his arms crossed.

“If you were under my command I would beat you for that bit of tommyrot. That was at least two tons of wood and rock you brought down around your head,” he said dangerously. “But,” he added with grudging respect, “certain tales I have doubted begin to take on shades of veracity.”

“If you mean the oliphant it took several arrows to bring down,” Legolas replied modestly. “I would not have you overrate my skill.” He handed the hatchet he had taken from the pile to Mzagal, who looked at it closely.

“Ah,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “No, not one of ours. Good work,” he added.

Legolas inclined his head, hearing murmurs of surprise among the Dwarves at his back. Evidently Mzagal’s praise did not come cheap.

 

“What news?” Burin asked, arriving with a company of Dwarves to relieve the diggers that morning. 

“Why, you have nearly finished!” he added in surprise, observing the clean swathe of progress spread over the stone floor.

“Not finished, not yet,” Mzagal replied, offering him a roll. “But having the Elf helped a great deal.”

“Elf!” Burin repeated, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Azagh brought him here. He worked all night without stopping. He would not even take any water, until I brought him some.” Mzagal’s tone was indifferent, but he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

Burin grunted.

“And he found this,” Mzagal added, pointing to a tool wrapped in cloth that lay on the table between them.

Burin unwrapped it. “Ah,” he said, hefting the small hatchet in his hand. “We begin to see.”

“Already, we have found some marks upon the struts of the scaffolding that match it. The Elf found them. His eyes are keen.”

Burin bit his lip and did not reply.

“You do not speak?”

“What would you have me say?” Burin demanded, goaded to anger.

Mzagal shrugged. “Farewell. I go to my bed. I will return with the others at sunset.”

“Mzagal. Wait.”

“Yes?”

_“You_ trust him, then? After only a night’s labor?”

“Burin, if a stranger saves you from death once, perhaps you may doubt his motives. But twice? Thrice? A hundred times? How long until you call him friend? You may doubt Gimli’s judgment, but do not doubt the Elf’s actions. I have seen for myself now.” He nodded again. “Farewell.”

Alone, Burin glowered. Never had he thought to see his friends desert him for an Elf. Even if there was truth in what they said he could not think Legolas worthy of Gimli. What Elf could deserve the love of a Dwarf? Elves were not blessed with Dwarvish constancy. Even if they _could_ trust his loyalty today, who could say what the morrow might bring?

With a grimace he forced himself to thrust aside his dark thoughts, and he turned to attend the work of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mizim is referred to by female pronouns in the section that is her POV, since it is how she thinks of herself.
> 
> All feedback is very much appreciated!

It was after dawn when Legolas returned to Gimli’s chambers, and the two young Dwarves that had stood guard the previous day continued at their posts.

Legolas paused. “Say not that you have stood guard all night!” he said.

The two exchanged surprised glances, and then the younger spoke. “No, my Lord. We were relieved last night. We only just arrived.”

“Ah,” the Elf said. “That is well. I thank you for your service.” He bowed to them and went through the doorway, and they exchanged bemused glances. 

Aragorn was sitting at the bedside still, carving a piece of wood with a little knife. He smiled when Legolas entered the room.

“You were gone longer than I expected.”

“I know. I am sorry. Thank you for waiting.”

“It is nothing. Your work went well?”

“Well enough,” Legolas said. He breathed out. “I wish...”

“Legolas. You need not tell me. If it is as I fear I suspect I will know soon enough.”

Legolas could think of nothing to say to this, but his heart hurt, for himself and for Aragorn.

“He did not awaken in the night,” Aragorn said. “I will leave you now. Only call for me if you have need.”

“ _Diola lle_ , Aragorn.”

Alone in the room with Gimli at last Legolas let out a long sigh. He felt great weariness, not of the body but of the spirit, and he dropped gracefully into the chair Aragorn had abandoned. He took Gimli’s hand in his own and chafed it, and thought for the first time in months of his sea-longing. It took him most often when he experienced weariness or pain; like a subtle and insipid knife it carved a path to his heart, offering to part him from all that caused him suffering and unhappiness.

 _There is joy in this life as well_ , he thought fiercely, as if trying to convince himself.

“Aye,” Gimli said from the bed, “I would not have you go over the Sea, Legolas.”

“Gimli! You are awake!” he exclaimed. Had he spoken aloud, then, without realizing it?

Unable to control himself he fell upon the Dwarf, arms encircling his broad shoulders. He pressed his face to Gimli’s neck. The softness of his hair always surprised him, no matter how often he touched it. The sea-longing was--at least temporarily--forgotten.

“ _A'maelamin_ , I was so worried,” he said.

“Where were you, Legolas?” Gimli complained. “I called for you, and you were not here.”

“I am sorry, dearest. Forgive me. I am here now.” Instinct guided him, and he climbed into the bed on the Dwarf’s uninjured side to embrace him full length.

“That is well,” Gimli said, in a lordly way that made the Elf smile. 

“Where are we Legolas?”

“In the palace of the King. Aragorn’s palace. Minas Tirith.”

“Ah. How came we here? Was I hurt in battle?”

“No, _mellonamin_. You fell. From a great height. The battle is over.”

“Over? Did we win, Legolas?”

“Yes, my dear. You slew many orcs.”

“Ah, that is good,” Gimli said, closing his eyes. “More than you?”

“Of course,” Legolas said, and kissed his cheek.

“Legolas!” Gimli said, startled, opening his eyes. “You are crying! What is it? Are you injured?”

“No, _mellonamin_. I am happy. You have been ill, and I was grieved.”

“Ill?” Gimli repeated. He turned his head to look at his injured arm. “Ah…” he said. “How came I by this?”

Legolas kissed him again. “It matters not,” he said, remembering Azagh’s words. “Rest now, my dear. All is well.”

“But the battle…”

“The battle is over. We won the battle.”

“Aye. That is good. We did win, Legolas?”

“Yes. We won. How do you feel, Gimli?”

Gimli considered this question. “Thirsty,” he said at last. 

“Here,” Legolas said, “Can you sit up?”

He helped Gimli to rise and was relieved to see the Dwarf was steady on his feet. He crossed the room. Legolas hesitated a moment, keeping half an eye on him, and then began to change the sheets for clean ones that had been left folded nearby. They felt clammy to him, but it was as much to give his friend the illusion of privacy.

Gimli groomed himself, and washed his face with water, and then he sat at the table and drank deeply from a cup. He even picked up a roll that had been left there, with some other food, and began to eat it. 

Legolas found the bandages that had been left close at hand, and went to the table. “Gimli, your wounds must be redressed,” he said. “Will you let me?”

“Aye,” Gimli said absently. “But, Legolas! This gown is too hot. I do not like it.”

Legolas swallowed. “Very well,” he said. “I will find you another.”

Gimli nodded and began to pull at the robe, as much as he was able with only one good arm. After a moment Legolas came to help him. 

“Can you stand a moment?” he asked. 

Gimli complied, and Legolas pulled the robe over his head. He was naked beneath it; he did not seem to notice. Legolas swiftly undid the bandage that covered Gimli’s arm. He was relieved to find it healing well, and he quickly rebound it.

Next was the wound on his head. This took longer; there was a good deal of dried blood in his hair, and on his skin, and Legolas dabbed at it carefully with a wet cloth. Only when it was clean did he rebandage the wound.

“It is still too hot,” Gimli complained.

“Well, you are standing in the sun,” Legolas replied lightly. “But come here.” He pulled Gimli aside, and took another cloth, dipped it in the cool water and then dabbed at Gimli’s forehead, his neck, his back, his arms. 

“That is well,” Gimli said, and yawned.

Legolas sighed in relief. He found a lighter chemise in the pile of clean linen, and helped Gimli into it.

“Are you tired, my dear? Then sleep now. I will be here.”

Gimli nodded drowsily, and climbed back into the bed. Even this brief activity seemed to have exhausted him, and Legolas tried not to despair.

“Legolas,” he said suddenly. “This is a strange thing. You smell of rock and earth, Legolas. Why do you smell like a Dwarf?”

“Perhaps it is because I love a Dwarf,” Legolas said recklessly.

“Aye,” Gimli said, nodding wisely. “That may be it. Which Dwarf do you love, Legolas?”

The Elf laughed helplessly. “Poor Gimli. I could say any nonsense to you now and you would believe it!”

“Do you say so?” Gimli asked absently, yawning again. “Where are we, Legolas?”

“Hush. Sleep now. All is well,” Legolas murmured, wishing it were true.

 

 

Thelin arrived at midday to bring them food, and so that they might take a turn outside and visit the privy before nightfall.

“How does our Lord?”

“The same. Azagh came and went away again this morning. He said he is healing well.”

“The Elf is still inside,” Mizim added.

“Does he sleep?” Thelin asked.

Mizim and Obur looked at each other and shrugged. “Perhaps in the night he did. He did not return until after dawn this morning.”

“Aahhh,” Thelin said with relish. “Then you did not hear what happened.”

Obur stifled an exasperated sigh. “Spare us your games, Thelin! If there is news then speak plainly.”

Thelin examined his axe blade, as if he wondered whether it needed sharpening. “Spare me your harsh words, Obur,” he returned softly. “If I do not tell you now, you will not know all that happened until you are relieved this evening!” 

With the quickness that had won her acclaim in the forges Mizim pushed the two Dwarves apart before blows could be exchanged. “Striplings!” she hissed wrathfully, “Remember where you are! Think you you guard a pig sty?”

Shamefaced, they looked away, and Mizim said in a flat voice, with mocking civility. “Please, Thelin son of Frelin, share your news, that these two lowly guards might benefit from your superior experience.”

Thelin made a gloomy face. “It was not I who began with discourtesy--”

Mizim glared at him. 

“Very well!” he hurried on, “Last night Azagh brought the Elf to the worksite.”

“What!” the two Dwarves cried together, and Thelin was gratified.

“Do not say that _Mzagal_ allowed him there!”

“Oh, aye!” Thelin dissented. “The foreman did step aside, and allow him to enter. He worked alongside the diggers all night.”

Obur and Mizim cried out in amazement, and Thelin preened, their reaction being all that he had hoped for.

“It cannot be true,” Mizim said in disbelief. 

“You would not credit it, eh? And yet you may ask any of the diggers, they will tell the same tale.”

“But Mzagal,” Mizim repeated, dumbfounded. 

If any Dwarf could be said to have a will of rock it was Mzagal. Never had Mizim known the older Dwarf to bend, and more than once had she been wounded by that sharp tongue. Mizim had been nearby when the wall had collapsed, and when she had arrived (for no Dwarf could mistake that sound, and within minutes all the Dwarves of Minas Tirith had been at the worksite) Mzagal had been there already, surveying the destruction stony-faced and emotionless. 

“Mizim! Where do you think you’re going?” Mzagal had demanded.

“I--” Mizim had replied, startled.

“Have you been trained for this work?”

“Well--not officially, but my father--”

“Then step back, before you do more ill than good,” Mzagal had said, and turned back to the engineers.

Mzagal had not allowed anyone to begin shifting the piles until Azagh had arrived, and it had been the two of them working together that had rescued Gimli so swiftly. The old Dwarf and the young one had been united in single purpose, seeming to read each others’ thoughts. They had no need for speech, and the few mine-signs that passed between them were almost too rapid for the watching Dwarves to follow. The oldest mine-hardened veterans had stood together, ready to jump in at the first false step, but in minutes the terrible wreckage had parted and the two of them were lifting Gimli out--carefully, oh so carefully!

A murmur of astonishment had passed through the crowd. The oldest grizzled Dwarves were calling it a miracle, and turning to the youngest to say, “Remember this night. You will not see the like again, even if you live to be four hundred.”

If Mizim had not seen it with her own eyes she would not have believed it possible. Her father had been a miner, and she had no little knowledge of cave-ins and collapses. Such a rescue should have taken hours, if not days, and always there was the risk that a wrong move could shift the whole pile, and crush whoever was unlucky enough to be trapped inside.

Even after Gimli had been safely removed to the King’s palace Mzagal had let no inexperienced Dwarves assist with the clean up. In the face of strong opposition the foreman had remained firm. The Dwarves that had built the wall would be the ones to clean up the wreckage. Any additional Dwarves allowed to help would be only the most sober and most experienced. Mizim had been denied a place, along with nearly all the other young Dwarves.

That Mzagal had allowed an Elf access to the site defied all sense and logic. The Elf had no experience in such places, nor any knowledge of the Dwarf-signs that were so integral to the smooth running of such a place.

“Mzagal must run mad,” Mizim said.

“That is not all,” Thelin said. He lowered his voice, although no one else was nearby. “The Elf found a hatchet in the rubble. Made by Men.”

Muted murmurs of astonishment greeted this declaration, and Mizim looked anxiously down the corridor, as if to be sure they were quite alone.

With certain embellishments Thelin told them all that had occurred that night, and when he left them at the end of their meal the two young Dwarves were silent and uneasy.

For Mizim it felt as if the world had shifted beneath her. She could no longer be sure that the ground would hold her weight. It seemed to move and crack with each step she took.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much intrigue! Apologies for that, the next chapter will have much more action.

Days passed, and rumor grew within the white city. 

Azagh had traveled far, perhaps further than any Dwarf now living, and he had spent most of his life as an exile. Appreciated, at the best of times, for his skilled work: more often simply tolerated and ignored. But in the bad times that he did not like to think of (the bad times that, truth be told, had driven him back to Erebor at last, long after the rest of his kin had heeded that summons) there had been prejudice, aversion, injustice, aye, and worse! Much worse.

How lordly had been their reception, in Minas Tirith! How gratifying had been the Men’s admiration of their Dwarvish skill. He had thought Aragorn wise beyond measure, and the people of Gondor--led by their King, and Elvish Queen--more liberal in their affection for the other races.

And now the rumors had begun. Their Dwarvish fortifications had failed; the Dwarf Lord lay dying, killed by his own people’s carelessness; the other fortifications the Dwarves had already completed--how long could they stand! Perhaps the Dwarves had done it on purpose, in their greed seeking compensation to repair what they themselves had broken. 

No doubt there was even worse being said...and would there be worse to come?

He was not surprised by the knock on the door, nor the messenger summoning him to a conference with the King and his advisors. But he left for the appointment with a heavy heart.

They sat at a table: Frelin, Burin, King Aragorn, and Hassir, most skilled of Gondor’s human engineers, who worked closely with the Dwarves in all their projects. Then there were Men Azagh knew only by sight--some were advisors to the King, and at least one he thought thought was a leader of the merchants.

_What I would give for Faramir to be sitting at this table_ Azagh thought to himself. He liked the young Lord, and he knew his common sense and easy temper would have been a boon at this dour gathering, but Faramir was far away, visiting his wife’s people.

“Where is Mzagal?” he asked the Dwarves in an undertone.

“Are you not chief engineer?” Frelin asked. “What business would a foreman have at such a meeting?”

Azagh frowned and looked at Burin, but Burin’s face was impassive. That both Dwarves were on edge he saw plainly enough, and he regretted it. Burin he trusted, but Frelin had not the temperament for negotiations. He was too quick to anger. 

_The Men should not so outnumber the Dwarves at this meeting; the King does us a discourtesy though he does not realize it. If only Gimli were well!_ Azagh thought unhappily as he took his seat.

Meanwhile King Aragorn was making introductions. Azagh did not trouble to remember all their names, but the Man with the most years was Vargas, and the merchant called Obereth. 

“I am told you seek to begin rebuilding the wall,” Obereth said.

The Man’s tone was contemptuous, and Azagh felt Frelin and Burin rise to hackles at his sides. His own voice he kept calm and friendly. “That is so. We seek to rebuild what has fallen, as we have done these past three years.”

“And why will it not fall again, if you begin to rebuild it? Indeed, what assurances do we now have that any of your projects are safe?”

“Hassir has seen all of our plans, and found them sound.”

“Indeed, that is true,” Hassir said. “The Dwarvish constructions are unmatched.”

But this had been the wrong thing to say; Obereth hissed and Vargas frowned.

“Unmatched--” Obereth began to say, and Frelin and Burin were both on their feet, anticipating the coming insult, when King Aragorn called out,

“Silence!”

All sat down with reluctance, and Aragorn turned to Azagh.

“Azagh, I have my own notions of what may have happened,” he said, “but if you have discovered anything, please, now is the time to reveal it.”

The other Dwarves had not agreed to this, but now it seemed unavoidable. With a presentiment of disaster Azagh said, “The site of the wall was tampered with. We have found evidence of this. It was sabotaged, and very cunningly done.”

There was an outcry, and again Aragorn raised his hands for silence.

“One of the instruments, at least, of this destruction we have in our possession. It was found in the wreckage. A hatchet, not Dwarvish in design.”

“What! Do you accuse us of destroying our own wall!”

“This is madness! You seek to blame us for your own carelessness!”

“Carelessness! Dwarves could have no greater care! The scaffolds and supports were checked only hours before the collapse! And it is our Lord that suffers now, for the malice and jealousy of Men!” Frelin cried.

The doors of the room were opened and two of Aragorn’s guards entered warily, but Aragorn waved them away with a frown. Azagh released Frelin, who was struggling in his grasp, and with a final, “Hmph!” the other Dwarf fell silent. Aragorn had risen to stand between the other Men and the Dwarves: now he spoke.

“Please accept my apologies, Master Dwarves. I did not call this meeting for recriminations and attacks.” He looked hard at Obereth. “No one is more grieved than I, at Gimli’s injuries. You all know he is my friend of old; know this too: I do not doubt the loyalty and friendship of the Dwarves any more than I would doubt that of my friend Gimli. The people of Gondor will always be grateful to the friends who have aided us in war and in peace.”

Obereth returned the King’s stare and said, “You call yourself King of Men, yet you believe these base accusations? The Elves depart these shores. Do not they say it is the Age of Men? It is for Men to rebuild the city of Minas Tirith, not the last relics of a dying race.”

With those words he left the room, leaving the Dwarves furious in his wake.

Frelin spoke first: he turned to Aragorn, and said, “Why do you not arrest him now?”

“On what proof, Frelin?” Azagh asked. “Think you one frail old Man worked alone to destroy our work?”

Vargas frowned at them. “He spoke rashly, but I do not doubt his loyalty, and I do not believe in any conspiracy! If what you say is true, then why did you not speak of it earlier?”

“We hoped for more proof,” Azagh said. “And if the attack was not on the wall, but on our Lord’s life as we suspect then we did not want to endanger him further. Perhaps we should have spoken sooner, but it was the decision of us all, and if we were wrong then in that we share the blame.”

“But how can we believe anything now, when you admit to keeping secrets? How do we know you yourselves are not the conspirators?” asked one unwise Man.

“To what end!” Burin demanded, outraged. “Forget you that our Lord was injured? No Dwarf would ever do such a thing! Never have I been so insulted!”

“Friends, please!” Aragorn said. “I believe the Dwarves, Vargas. They have no reason to lie. Now that we know I hope we may investigate this together. If you need anything, Azagh, you have only to name it; please continue work on the wall if you are ready. I will send guards of my own to aid you in protecting the site.”

Azagh bowed and acknowledged this with as much grace as he could muster, but inside his thoughts were churning. The interview had gone even worse than he had anticipated.

 

 

That evening Burin sought Azagh out, bringing ale with him.

“Welcome is the Dwarf who bears gifts,” Azagh remarked cheerfully.

“May they soften the blow of ill news,” Burin replied with a sigh. 

“Ah, do not beat around the bush on my account, Burin! I know you met with the others today, and that I was not invited to attend.”

“I would not have excluded you,” Burin said sorrowfully. “It was not my decision, Azagh.”

“Yes, I know that too,” Azagh said. He returned to the table with tankards, and Burin poured out the ale.

“So? Spare me none of the details. What did they say? ‘Who is Azagh, fourth engineer? Tinkerer, wanderer, crackpot? He is no warrior! He is no leader of Dwarves!’”

Burin looked gloomy and would not answer. Azagh sipped his ale. 

“I have heard it before, Burin,” he said, kindly. “I am not surprised.”

“What happened today was not your fault,” Burin said. “I wish Aragorn would not keep pet vipers.”

“Do not blame the King,” Azagh said. “It is still early days in his reign, and he must have a care for the stability of his kingdom. You do not replace every strut at once, Burin, even when your supports are weak and corroded.”

Burin glowered, and said, “Still he ought not allow such things to be said. Were it not for Gimli's great friendship with the King blood would be shed over the insults offered us today. Even now I am not certain how long this 'peace' will last!”

“But such things _are_ being said in the kingdom, Burin. Many Men feel as Obereth do; more than I would have suspected before this last evil week. Aragorn is no tyrant, and he must hear out the Men of the city or else risk rebellion...or worse...”

There was a pause while the two Dwarves drank, then Burin said, “They wish me to go to the Glittering Caves, to tell the others what has happened. I am to call for aid and counsel. Gwalin, they suggest to take charge until Gimli is well.”

“Aye, Gwalin is wise,” Azagh agreed, “but such a journey cannot be accomplished in a day.”

“No,” Burin admitted. “Frelin is to lead until our return. Azagh, I am sorry. If we have not always agreed, then know that I respect you and I find no fault with your leadership. I would follow you still. But the others have decided against me, and they would not listen.”

“Hmm,” Azagh said, nodding. “And do you leave at such a time?”

“I cannot like it. But it is what I must do.”

“No, Burin,” Azagh said gently. “It is what I must do.”

“What?”

“You must stay in Minas Tirith. You will rule, and not Frelin. I will go to the Glittering Caves. No one can argue against your staying, at such a time.”

“Azagh, no,” Burin protested. “I have made the journey many times, and can do it quickly. You have made it only once, and that was years ago. You do not know the way! And the road is not entirely safe, even in these times.”

“Then I will take some of the youngsters with me. Mizim, she knows the way does she not?”

“Aye, but--”

“Then that’s settled. We leave tomorrow,” Azagh said. “Now, how about a nice game of _hnefatafl_?”

“It is _not_ settled! I have not agreed--”

“Burin. Unless I grossly mistake the matter, I believe you have reason to stay in Minas Tirith, do you not?”

“Well,” Burin hesitated, “yes, of course, but--”

“And do you wish to stay?”

“Yes,” Burin admitted. “But my duty--”

“Your duty is to your family, and your kin, Burin,” Azagh said, reaching out to cover one of the younger Dwarf’s hands with his own. “Stay here. Protect your interests. Watch over Gimli. Do you fear for me? Foolish child, do you think it is by luck that I reach so great an age? I assure you mine has not been a lucky life; I am more wily than you guess!”

“Well do I know it,” Burin said with a reluctant smile. “Very well: I will inform the others. But you must take some of the warriors with you, or I will not allow it.”

“As many as you like,” Azagh agreed comfortably, not knowing that he would soon have cause to regret his rash assent.

 

 

“But how can you leave, at such a time?” Legolas demanded, his dark brows drawing together.

“I am sorry,” Azagh said gently. “It is not that I wish to go, but that my people demand it.”

“I do not understand,” Legolas murmured, his eyes drawn back to the bed to gaze at Gimli’s sleeping form. “If someone must go to the Glittering Caves, why do you not send Burin? I know he has often made the journey with Gimli. You are needed here.”

In spite of himself, Azagh was touched. He had received little enough kindness, these past few days.

“Gimli will soon be well, and there is little enough that I could do for him now that any of our healers could not,” he said with false heartiness. 

Legolas’s face softened. “It is not only for Gimli’s sake that I wish you would stay. I have received no better counsel. I might as well question the walls and floors as the other Dwarves, for all the answer they give me!”

Azagh smiled. “Then, if I might give you counsel I would suggest patience, my Lord. Just as it takes time to tunnel into the mountain, so does it take time to reach the hearts of Dwarves.”

Legolas looked away, but not before Azagh saw him frown. Had he over-stepped again, then? Truly these Elves were difficult creatures to understand!

“Does Burin make you go in his stead?” Legolas asked abruptly.

“No. No. In truth, he would have gone, but I said I would go in his place.”

Legolas turned back to look at him curiously. “Why?”

“Well…” Azagh said slowly, and coughed. “We have reason to think Burin may soon be congratulated.”

At Legolas’s puzzled look, he added, “He is going to be a father.”

The Elf looked amazed. “I did not know there were any female Dwarves in Minas Tirith.”

“Did you not?” Azagh asked merrily.

“I thought you kept your women-folk close to home.”

Azagh laughed. “More often they are found close to their husbands. Come now, Legolas, if you begin to tell me all that you thought you knew of Dwarves we will be here all day.”

“And still I would not have reached the end of my ignorance,” Legolas murmured with a wry smile. “Who is the mother--who is Burin’s wife?”

“Mzagal.”

Legolas was thunderstruck. “You do not speak of the foreman!”

“Aye. That is Mzagal.”

“But...no, I cannot be misremembering! Always you have called Mzagal ‘him.’”

“That is our way. Wouldn’t make much sense for them to dress in male-garb, if we gave the secret away as soon as we opened our mouths, eh?”

“I cannot believe it," Legolas said, wondering.

“Ah, that will please her,” Azagh chuckled. “She’s a hard one, is our Mzagal. Not that she hasn’t had reason, of course. Twice as tough and twice as hard our females need to be, they say.”

“Mzagal,” Legolas repeated softly to himself, thinking of the night he had met her. “How strange it seems. She is close to her time, and yet still she works?”

“Why not?”

Legolas thought of hot, close furnaces, of filthy and crowded construction sites and did not answer. How strange these Dwarves were! 

“Is it permitted to congratulate her?”

“Aye, do,” Azagh said encouragingly, with a hint of mischief the Elf entirely missed. _And what I wouldn't give to see her reaction!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEWARE! There may be VIOLENCE! DANGER! ACTION! and CLIFFHANGERS! ahead!
> 
> I changed the date of Eldarion's birth for the purposes of the story. (Come on, Tolkien, 43 years is a long time for a couple to be married without issue!)

Legolas stood alone at the top of a high tower within the city. The wind blew at his golden hair and his gray cloak, but he did not heed it. From here his keen eyes could see much.

There was Mzagal, overseeing the rebuilding of the wall. Already the Dwarves had laid the first rows of stones, and nearby he could see soldiers standing guard. There was Arwen, walking in one of the palace gardens and holding Eldarion. And there, in the distance were the handful of Dwarves led by Azagh that departed for the Glittering Caves.

He watched them go with misgiving. Though it had been nearly a week since his arrival in Minas Tirith he thought Gimli no better. He woke only for a little each day, and still he was confused. Azagh had calmly explained to him over again that Gimli’s skull had been injured, and that there was now a cushion of blood around his brain that must be slowly reabsorbed by the body. After that Gimli would recover quickly, but until then they must be patient. Legolas had only just been comforted by these reassurances, and with Azagh gone he feared the stony silence of the other Dwarf healers.

But beyond the anxiety he felt for Gimli lay other troubles. Closeted as he had been with his friend, he had not failed to notice the increased surliness of the Dwarves, nor the rumors passing through the city. He suspected there was more behind it than crude gossip. There was some clever malice at work here. A shadow and a threat... 

Familiar footsteps ascended the steps behind him. Without turning, he said, “Surely you have a thousand things to do this morning.”

“Aye,” Aragorn said, coming to stand behind him. “None more important than seeing what troubles my friend.”

Legolas smiled, but did not reply to this directly. “They make a pretty picture,” he said, nodding to Arwen and the child in the gardens far below.

“None prettier,” the King agreed, his expression soft and wistful.

They were silent for a time, and then Legolas said, as if picking up the thread of an earlier conversation, “I cannot help but wish Mithrandir had not departed these shores. I would seek his guidance now.”

“It has been in my thoughts, also,” Aragorn said. “But we are beyond the Wizard’s aid now, and must find our own way.”

“I hope you find your way clear. A shadow lies upon your city, Aragorn.”

“Well do I know it,” the King said with a deep frown. “But I will not allow a few squabbling factions to destroy what we have worked for.”

“Are you sure that is all that it is?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew,” Legolas said, watching the Dwarves shrink as they passed through the great plain.

 

 

Mizim’s pleasure at being chosen to lead the traveling party had warred with her desire to protect her Lord; in the end she had nearly begged Azagh to be excused, until Burin had taken her aside to explain things. She had gone without protest then, and felt her pride redoubled at being chosen to lead what seemed to her a dangerous and important mission.

The others did not see it so, and for this she considered them lacking in wit. Let Uri and Helchar and Fandir joke and jest if they liked; it was beneath her dignity! 

For herself she kept one hand upon her axe and her eyes upon the horizon. The pace she set was swift, though not hard enough to exhaust the ponies. Azagh rode just behind her, but he did not speak much; he was as distant and thoughtful as she had ever known him. She thought it was very hard on the old Dwarf for the others to have used him so--he, who had rescued Gimli in a feat that had been nothing short of miraculous!

But the elders blamed him for some negotiations that had gone awry, or so she had heard. It was quite unfair, for no one knew more about Men than Azagh, except perhaps Gimli himself. She thought it was far more likely that Frelin, who was known to be hot-tempered, had caused the trouble and then set the blame at Azagh’s door.

She had longed to ask Burin about it during their brief interview, but had not done so. Frelin was higher-born than the others, and even here far from Erebor that counted for something. Probably it was as simple as that, she reflected sourly. Azagh was worthy, but no one could deny that he was odd. He had passed more years of his life among Men than among Dwarves, it was said, and it could not be denied that he was strangely solitary and rather eccentric.

He was certainly clever though; she suspected he knew more about the strange events in Minas Tirith than he had yet said, and she hoped on their journey she might glean an answer or two. 

They made good time, and were many miles from Minas Tirith by nightfall. They made camp in Anórien, with the mountains at their back, and Mizim took the first watch, not trusting the others. She woke Azagh a third part through the night, and he yawned and nodded to her. 

It was on the tip of her tongue to question him, and she lingered a moment by the campfire. He seemed very distant, and his eyes were far away. She found she had not the courage to speak and sought her bed instead.

She woke just before dawn to find Fandir stirring porridge over the little fire. She rubbed her face a moment, then sprang up to store her gear and pay a visit to the bushes. 

Fandir handed her a bowl of porridge when she returned and she nodded her thanks.

“How passed the night?”

“Well enough,” Fandir said. “Though my eyes played tricks on me, just before the dawn. I thought I saw shadows move upon the mountain! Almost, I would have waked you,” he added with a laugh.

“Shadows?” she repeated, looking towards the mountains. They were some miles off, and to her eyes they looked just as they always did.

“Aye. It happens sometimes in the third watch, when you’ve no company but your own thoughts!” Seeing that she looked unconvinced he added, “Truly, Mizim, there was nothing there. I did watch a good long while, and I saw nothing move again; it was only my eyes, playing tricks on me.”

“All the same,” she said, “if it happens again, do wake me.”

“All right,” he said, puzzled. “But there’d have been naught to see; indeed, it was only for a moment.”

Nothing odd happened all that day, and the miles passed swiftly. But Mizim was even warier than before. The others seemed to sense it, and there were not so many jokes as yesterday. Truly, this was the most dangerous part of the journey; they were more than a day’s ride from Minas Tirith now, and several from the borders of Rohan. Far from aid if they should have need of it. 

Bandits were known to attack unwary caravans, and even orcs--the last, but never-quite-ceasing dregs of Mordor--had been seen from time to time. 

_But we have all seen battle,_ Mizim told herself sternly, _and in my years traveling this road I have seen naught that five well-armed Dwarves could not take care of!_

Still she was restless that night, and it was nearly the end of Uri’s watch before she fell asleep. 

Helchar had the second watch, and he was absently poking the fire when Mizim nearly startled him out of his skin. She sprang to her feet, fully awake, her axe at the ready.

He was on his feet looking for the threat before he had time to think; after a moment he realized there was none. Amused and slightly annoyed he was about to chastise the other Dwarf for jousting at her own nightmares when she cried out.

“On your feet you fools!”

The other three were awake at once, as if they had only been feigning sleep all this time, and Mizim threw one of her deadly knives into the darkness.

There was a cry, and Helchar cursed. He could see now, through the night fog and the long grass, that there were shapes approaching them and that now they were a scant thirty yards away. 

They had been stealthy, and their approach had been well hid. They must have practically crawled on their bellies to avoid being seen! The thought did not comfort him, and he was very angry at himself.

Arrows fell, still some feet away; what the orcs lacked in skill they would make up for in numbers, Mizim thought. There were over 100 that she could see, and already they began to charge!

“We must get to the ponies!” she shouted. Escape was their only chance against such a host. 

The ponies, hitched only a few feet from their campfire, were whickering nervously and in seconds the Dwarves had cut their lines and mounted. Mizim took the lead, urging her beast on, and the mare moved swiftly, driven by fear. 

The orcs had nearly surrounded them, running at them from all sides and crying out in harsh unnatural howls. They rode straight into an attacking army, but Mizim pressed grimly on; if they could not press through they would be overwhelmed.

With the battle cry of the Dwarves taken up by her kin behind her, Mizim met the host head-on, neatly beheading one orc and then driving her axe into the skull of another. She dragged him along for a moment before the great strength of her arm drew the weapon free, and then the fighting was fast and furious and she could only react.

The ponies were doughty, but they had not been trained for battle and it was all Mizim could do to keep hold of her little mare with one hand while the other fought on. 

_“Keep on, keep on!”_ Mizim cried. She could feel the others close by, and hear them, but she could not stop fighting long enough to turn her head to look for them. _Stay close!_ she thought. _We have nearly broken through!_

Then she heard a cry behind her, one that she had been dreading to hear. Unmistakably it was Azagh. Furiously she turned back in time to see him fall; he had been stabbed by an orcish blade, while another orc had speared his pony.

Mizim dropped to the ground without thinking, letting her pony bolt away. Her axe flashed in the air, too quick for the eye to follow, as she hewed her way to the elder Dwarf. She stood over him, pushing back the orcs with her blade, letting none near him.

“Mizim, no,” Azagh gasped behind her. “Leave me, child! Leave me!”

The last thing he saw, before the darkness took him was Mizim’s axe holding back the orcs. _Azagh you fool!_ he thought. _You asked to bring her! You agreed to take the others!_ Then he knew no more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback I have received! I read every comment and they are very much appreciated.

It felt as though the night would never end. Mizim had lost count of the orcs that had fallen to her axe, but there was no end to their coming. There were still those among them wielding bows, and she had turned aside some clumsily aimed arrows but a grim thought dogged her. It would take only one lucky arrow to break through her guard.

She could still hear the others, fighting as hard as she was. After Azagh had fallen they had closed ranks around her, but they were only four now against untold numbers. If the orcs broke through...but she could not allow herself to think of that, or indeed of anything. Her mind was full of the swish and heft of her axe blade, her eyes were everywhere seeking to push back the threat.

An arrow came from behind her right shoulder to pierce the head of an orc, and though she fought on the arrow puzzled her. She could not understand it, and then it was followed by a volley and the orcs around her collapsed into sudden stillness. It gave her time to turn her head.

“The Elf!” she cried to the others. “The Elf comes! Brothers, take heart!”

She leaped forward almost with joy, her strength redoubled, but only two fell to her blade before they were on the retreat, snarling and growling. She could not follow without abandoning Azagh, so she returned to her post just as the Elf rode upon them.

“Well met, sir! Well met indeed!” Mizim said gladly.

The Elf acknowledged this with a nod, but his voice was serious when he said, “My arrows are nearly spent, and I must preserve some for future need. Does he live?”

“He lives!”

“Then get him up before me.”

Mizim and Helchar had lifted Azagh up in a moment, and Legolas clasped him around the waist. The Elf whistled, a long soft note, and Mizim saw her pony trot towards them. Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly wiped them away. Gratitude overwhelmed her and she could not speak. A moment ago she had thought it certain that death would claim them all.

“Come, now, we must leave this place,” Legolas said. The Dwarves remounted and Legolas led them away, a few orcish arrows following them.

The Dwarves glanced behind them--some dozens of orcs they left alive, but none argued with the Elf. Hale and hearty they might have chanced it, but the battle had been swift and furious and they had all taken injury.

They were too exhausted to speak. The ponies took some spirit from Legolas’s fine horse, perhaps--they did not have trouble matching the pace he set. The sky lightened and they seemed almost to be riding into the dawn away from darkness.

Legolas drew up suddenly. “We will stop here, for a moment,” he said to the others. “The orcs are many miles away now.” 

He drew Azagh down and laid him gently on the ground. “Have you clear spirits? Clean linen? Water?” 

At once the things were in his hands, and Mizim helped Legolas to remove Azagh’s bloodstained armor and tunic.

“He lost a great deal of blood,” Legolas murmured and then paused.

Azagh lay stripped to the waist, the shoulder wound a gory slash of red against the clean grass he lay on. Only the chest was not male, but female. He glanced at the others who were gathered around, but there was no surprise on their faces, only concern. So he cleaned the wound and bound it quickly. Mizim brought a clean tunic to replace the other, and a blanket which she wrapped around Azagh and secured with a brooch of her own.

“Now you others,” Legolas said. “What wounds do you have?”

They showed him, and he was relieved to see none were grievous, for they must make for Minas Tirith quickly. In other circumstances the Dwarves must have certainly tended to themselves, but they had been impressed with the speed and skill with which Legolas had bound Azagh’s wound, and they readily submitted to his care.

“My Lord--” Mizim began, while Legolas was binding her arm.

“Legolas, please,” he said, smiling at her. “There is no one here to scold you for lacking in protocol.”

“Legolas, then,” she said, stumbling slightly. “How did you know we would be attacked? How did you find us?”

The others leaned closer to hear.

“I cannot say,” Legolas replied. “I thought from the first it was an ill wind that bore you away, at such a time. I could not like it. After you left I was not easy. It was in my mind that some danger stalked you.”

“Who guards Gimli?”

“Burin was with him, when I left, and guards of the King. I do not fear for him.”

“But why were we attacked?” Mizim asked. “So many orcs have not been seen together since the War of the Ring, and the fall of Mordor!”

“They were gathered together for this purpose, that much is clear. As for the rest I cannot say. But I fear it is not the end. Come, we must return to Minas Tirith with all speed.”

They remounted and rode together.

 

 

 

Legolas said they might stop at noon to eat and rest. There was a stream with some trees nearby, and Legolas laid Azagh in the shade. Mizim came close to check his breathing and feel his pulse.

“His breath is shallow,” she said quietly. “And he has not woken.”

“He lost a great deal of blood, but am I not often reminded of the hardiness of Dwarves? There is healing enough in the city to mend him. Come, take heart. You fought well, shield-maiden, and that he lives is thanks to your protection.”

Mizim blushed furiously. He knew then! But she could not but be pleased at the compliment.

“You took me for a maid then?” she asked almost shyly.

“Not at first,” Legolas admitted. “Some things Azagh told me I have lately put to use. I think I begin to tell. I hope that knowledge is not forbidden to me.” There was humor in his voice, and she allowed herself to smile in return.

“You must come to know our ways, if you live long enough amongst us,” she said bracingly.

“I hope the knowledge does not come too slowly. Always, I fear to give offense!”

Of old, Mizim had thought the Elf arrogant (like all Elves, of course), but she saw now that often his haughtiness was really a sly kind of self-deprecation. It was like being given the last piece to a puzzle and seeing all slide into place. The last barriers of her liking for him fell away at once. 

_What a silly chit I was not to understand him earlier!_ she thought with hauteur. _As bad as Helchar or Uri! Why, he is really quite kind, it is only his strange Elvish ways that hide it._

“Oh no, you should not mind it so much!” she said with youthful confidence. “You are only an Elf, after all, and even if you are Gimli’s companion no one expects you to know our ways. 

“And,” she added with real generosity, “if you have any trouble you need only tell me. Sometimes these young Dwarves can be rather coarse,” with a handwave that took in Uri, Helchar, Fandir, and all of Dwarrowdom she continued, “but I can tell you they do mind me!”

It took all his self-control not to laugh, but he thanked her very kindly and said all that was proper.

 

 

When they reached Minas Tirith--five injured Dwarves led by the Elf--there was no little uproar. His leaving had been unremarked by nearly all; he had sought from Aragorn a secret way to leave the city, and Aragorn though troubled had helped him in his errand.

At once an escort came to bring them to the Houses of Healing, and Legolas was relieved of his charges. “Say little of what happened,” Legolas had advised the others. “I must speak with the King.”

He found Aragorn alone.

“What happened?” the Man asked. “They told me you returned, and that the Dwarves were injured.”

“Worse than I feared,” Legolas said, and quickly he told of the battle with the orcs and the return journey.

Aragorn paced the room in anger.

“Who raised such a force? And for what purpose? Only to ambush five Dwarves?”

“More than that,” Legolas said. “You must know what is being said, Aragorn. There are Men here that would see all Dwarves driven from this city. That the Dwarves were attacked cannot be a coincidence.”

“What say you? That some Men have assembled the orcs? Or some darker force? Legolas, I swear that until the accident all was at peace. The Dwarves have been our friends for years.”

“A jealous heart may guard its secrets, until the time is right.”

The King scowled deeply, and stopped before the window. It was a fine view, overlooking all of the city and the plains beyond but he seemed not to see it. Legolas went to him, and touched his shoulder.

“I fear you are right. The Dwarves have been attacked on two fronts now, and ill-will is being rallied against them, despite all my efforts. And we do not yet know the source. But I cannot allow a force of orcs, such as you have described, to roam the land attacking at their leisure. I will take soldiers and ride out. There may even be more--if such a host has been assembled for such a purpose, there may be worse to come. And if there is anything to be learned from them, I will know it! Will you ride with me?”

Legolas looked away. “Always, I have followed you,” he murmured, half to himself, “But among the Dwarves of Minas Tirith the engineers outnumber the warriors. And now Azagh is taken from them, as well as Gimli. Aragorn, I cannot leave.”

Aragorn looked at him with warmth and friendship. “I understand,” he said. “But will they follow you?”

Legolas smiled wryly. “I would not dare to try to lead them. But I will help them if I may.”

.

It was nearly three days since he had left the city, and he was anxious to see how Gimli fared. He followed the now-familiar path through the palace, and nearly passed by the door to the room that had been appointed to the Dwarf.

The guards he was accustomed to seeing were not there. Alarm stole over him, and he went into the room without knocking. The bed was empty, neatly made up. 

He trembled, torn between fear and bafflement. There was nothing here to disturb him, save Gimli’s absence, but if they had moved him why had Aragorn not said so?

“You are here then,” Gimli said, and he whirled around. 

“So! I didn’t dream it, after all. Did they fetch you over such a trifling thing? What folly! Indeed, Legolas, there was no call for you to have come all the way from Ithilien!” 

He could not speak. He could not move. He wanted only to fall upon Gimli, and cover his face with kisses. He was not master of himself. Something of this Gimli must have seen in his face, for his expression softened. 

“Ah, Legolas,” he said, and reached out a hand, and Legolas came forward, and knelt down so that the Dwarf had no recourse but to enfold him in his arms.

Legolas turned his face to the side, allowing the tears to come.

“You are well.” It was half-statement, half-question.

“Aye, aye, well enough…”

“Not fully well then,” Legolas said with the hint of a smile. “Azagh said--”

“Do not speak to me of Azagh! That I have escaped his notice so far, and been able to move about unhindered I thank fortune. Pray do not bring him down upon me, or I will be confined to my bed for weeks yet!”

Legolas leaned back in surprise to look Gimli in the eye. “You do not know then?”

“Hmm?” Gimli said, absently, brushing tears from the Elf’s cheek.

“How long have you been abroad?”

“Oh--well--I woke last night, and knew myself. Some trouble I had with the fiends who guarded my door! Impudence! But I returned to my own rooms, and was comfortable there. I slept again, I suppose, and I have been about the palace this morning. Though I mean to go to the worksite later. They told me I fell, but--Legolas? What is it?”

Gimli knew nothing yet then. For good or ill his Dwarves had not seen fit to tell him; was it his place to do so? Still, he did not see how it could be kept from him.

Gimli’s face still cupped his chin. He seemed not to notice. Fighting the impulse to turn his head, and kiss that calloused palm, Legolas took the Dwarf’s hand in his own.

“Come and sit, my dear,” he said. “There is much to tell.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter! All feedback is loved :)

Burin sat in gloomy contemplation of his friend. Azagh had not regained consciousness that morning, and from what the healers had told him it would be some time before he woke. Blood loss and shock had nearly killed him, and though they reckoned he would survive it was a close thing. There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Enter.”

Legolas came into the room and closed the door behind him.

“My Lord,” he said, with a start. He had been so overwrought by the events of the morning that he had nearly forgotten the Elf’s existence, in spite of Mizim’s heaped praise. At once a jumbled explanation came to his lips, but Legolas smiled and held up his hands for peace.

“I do not hold you responsible for Gimli. I am glad to see him so much improved. He told me himself that he nearly came to blows with you all when you would not leave him be.”

Burin laughed in startled surprise. “Aye,” he admitted, his gaze lowered as if he still expected rebuke. “Our Lord is a stubborn one. But do not think I left him unattended--I was with him myself this morning, until…” his voice trailed off, then he coughed and said, “And the others are nearby, I told them to keep a watchful distance.”

Legolas nodded, and motioned that Burin should be seated. He took the chair opposite.

“You found him well then?” Burin asked, unable to help himself.

“I was so glad! He tires too easily, and I can tell he is still weakened. But so Azagh said it would be,” Legolas replied, allowing his gaze to rest upon the old Dwarf lying in the bed.

Burin cleared his throat. “The young ones told me something of what happened--I understand we have you to thank for a great deal,” he said with awkward formality.

“And yet I think you are not altogether grateful,” Legolas said calmly.

Burin stiffened, and said in a hard and halting voice, “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“Nor did I. But I can see you are angry with me.”

“No,” he disavowed. “Only with myself. I ought to have gone! He would not be lying here now, if I had just gone as it was intended...but my Lord, if I am permitted to speak frankly, I would know why you did not tell me the nature of your errand. I was surprised when you told me you must leave the city, but I did not think it was because you believed Azagh and the others to be in danger.”

“Then I must beg your forgiveness,” Legolas said with a bow.

Burin looked very hard upon the Elf’s fair countenance, as if he suspected him of irony, but Legolas seemed--or pretended--not to notice.

“I informed no one of the nature of my errand, Burin, because I did not know myself. When I left I told only you and Aragorn, and I begged the King to keep my leaving a secret. I felt something was amiss, that some danger lurked in the world, but whether it was to Gimli or the King or the others I could not have said. 

“By the time I knew that orcs stalked them it was too late to call for other aid. I did as I judged best. If I was wrong then I must beg your forgiveness.”

“No,” the Dwarf said dolefully. “I am the one that has misjudged you. No one could ask for more friendship than you have shown us, and still I have not been satisfied. For that I am sorry, and must beg your pardon.”

“Then let us leave these recriminations, and be as friends now. Will you shake on it?”

Burin looked up in astonishment, but he nodded, and over Azagh’s bed they clasped hands.

“Tell me now, would the Men of the city have known you would send a leader of Dwarves to the Glittering Caves? Or would they have believed you to send a messenger only?”

Surprised, Burin replied, “Why, I suppose they must have thought that I would go. As indeed it was intended. It is well-known that I have acted as Gimli’s second, and in a matter such as this a messenger would not be sufficient.”

“Then we can say perhaps that you may have been the orcs’ target.”

“Me? But why!”

“I believe whatever force it is that seeks to sunder the friendship of Dwarves and Men in this city wishes you to be leaderless. Can you not think what a boon that would be, to an evil mind?”

“Aye,” Burin said, nodding, deep in thought. “The way things are now, there would be chaos...already there is open hostility. Do you know who is behind it then?” he added hopefully.

“Not as yet,” Legolas said. “But we hope to draw them out. Gimli and I have agreed--we must keep his recovery a secret. Let all in the city think he still lies injured and insensate. None have seen him, save a handful in the palace. The rumor is still strong that he lies dying.”

“Why, that is clever! But I am surprised you were able to bring him to agree.”

“It took less convincing than you might think,” Legolas said. “Perhaps he gains some wisdom in his old age! But he saw the rightness of it--he knows he is not yet well, despite all his protestations. It is better that he regains his full strength in secret, and be a weapon against our enemy when it is least expected.”

Burin stood up to take a turn about the room. Legolas watched him curiously but could not guess his thoughts.

The Elf’s speech had moved him. He had been as disgusted as any of the others when he had seen that Gimli’s love for the Elf was the true kind, and not a passing infatuation. Such a love could not be gainsaid, particularly when it was returned, and so there had been nothing for it but to resign themselves and treat the Elf with the politeness which Gimli demanded. Privately, Burin had been certain that treachery and heartbreak could be the only result from such a union. 

Had he not often heard--even experienced himself--the way they could twist words to their own aims? Yes, they might be cunning, clever, and fair, but they were also arrogant, selfish, and undependable. Or so he had always believed.

Yet here was the Elf, acting contrary to all of his expectations. He had put not only Gimli's well-being ahead of his own concerns, but the good of all the Dwarves. Furthermore, he had done what none of the others would have been able to do. This part of Gimli’s recovery must be the most treacherous, when he was well enough to move about and stubborn enough to overtax himself, yet still too weak to defend against whatever dangers lay ahead. And now Gimli had volunteered to be confined! Probably, Legolas had made him think it was his own idea. Burin could not help but smile. Yes, the Elves could speak prettily, but perhaps that was not always an evil.

“Burin?”

“It is a fine plan,” Burin said, aware he had been silent too long. He sat again. “Please, I would hear all that you would tell.”

“Then I wonder why you did not tell Gimli, yourself, what had happened?”

Burin winced. “Was he very angry? I was not there last night, and the others would wait for my counsel, before speaking themselves. I was with him this morning, but he had not yet woken when word came to me of the return of Azagh and the others--and I felt I must leave at once, and see for myself.”

“I see! No, he was not angry. Too surprised and troubled, I think, to note that all this news came from me and not one of you others. There is something else you must know--the King means to ride out with warriors to subdue the orcs, and see if any information can be got from them.”

“Ah! That is good,” Burin said, brightening. “If I could go with them--! But I fear my place is here.”

“A place of honor, nonetheless.”

“And you, my Lord? Do you stay or go?”

“I wish you will call me Legolas!”

“Indeed--indeed I will, if that is your wish! But it seems strange.”

“But we are friends now--so you have pledged yourself,” Legolas teased. “Do not betray me now.”

Burin laughed a little. “Very well--very well. Legolas. I will try to remember.”

“I stay. Though I cannot deny it pains me to part from Aragorn, I too feel my place is here.”

He wondered if Burin really did look relieved, or if he imagined it.

“Also, if Gimli is to be confined he must have someone to run his errands. So! I am to be his page.”

“A very noble and venerable page you will be!”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed meekly, with sparkling eyes, “But so my Lord Gimli commands, and so it must be. Where are Mizim and the others?”

“They were seen to by the healers, and permitted to leave, their injuries being slight. I sent them to rest in their own rooms.”

Legolas nodded wisely. “Mizim will certainly be at the palace then, guarding Gimli’s room.”

Burin could not resist laughing at this sally. “You grow to know his ways.”

“We had some liberty to speak, upon the road. A very worthy child, not lacking in courage. I do not think I would have found any of them alive had it not been for his bravery, and quick thinking.”

Burin blinked and looked away. “He is very loyal. Valiant, too, I see. He has not had opportunity to prove himself before now. I confess, we have been used to treat him as a child; he is one of the youngest here, and inexperienced. But Azagh saw worthiness in him, and I see his faith was not misplaced.”

“No, indeed it has been repaid tenfold. I hope you will remember it.”

“Aye, so you may be sure. Shall I go to Gimli now?”

Legolas heard the reluctance in his voice, and looked with him upon the sleeping form of Azagh. “I think you must go where your heart tells you, Burin. Gimli can certainly wait until this evening to speak to you. Are you kinsman of Azagh?”

Burin bowed his head. “No,” he said. “That is a sad thing, for he has no kinsman here, nor in Erebor, nor any place that I have heard. His brothers died in battle, long ago, and he is the last of his line. It is not right that he should be alone...” 

“Then Gimli would certainly wish you to stay with him,” Legolas said promptly. “But do not be so grieved! He will recover.”

“So you think?” Burin asked with cautious hope. 

“He has already lived through the worst of it,” Legolas said firmly. “He will be well. Have faith!” 

 

News of the Dwarves’ return had not stopped or even slowed the work upon the wall, but a gentle murmur, low enough that Mzagal could not scold, ran through the workers. The appearance of the Elf at the worksite elicited no little curiosity, but even the boldest among them dared not stop to question him, or come close enough to overhear his conversation with the foreman.

Mzagal looked up at his approach, clearly expecting some news or instruction. 

“I hear you are to be congratulated,” Legolas said.

Mzagal looked at him perplexed, and then surprised, and then embarrassed. “Oh, aye. Well. Aye,” she said awkwardly, and the Elf smiled.

There was a pause of consternation, and then in a burst of pride she added, “It will be our first.”

“May your child be blessed,” Legolas said softly, and Mzagal seemed pleased.

“I thank you,” she said, bowing formally. “I--may I ask, how does Gimli?” 

It was as if a veil had been lifted. Legolas had never seen Mzagal so informal and concerned. She seemed to ask with more than impersonal interest, and Legolas tilted his head.

“He is recovering well,” Legolas said. “You are his friend? You may go to him, you know. He would be pleased to see you.”

“Yes, but I’ve been so busy here,” she sighed. “And--Burin does not want me to go, at present. Not that you should think I am ruled by him!” she added quickly. “But I understand why he feels so. The city is not so safe at present. 

“Gimli and I played together as children you know. I don’t see as much of him as I once did. Even though Burin is often with him, my work keeps me here. He is of a nobler house, and we were parted when his education set him upon another path. But I was pleased, when he called for Dwarves to come south with him. I suppose...he has not mentioned me before?”

The Elf tilted his head, sifting through the store of tales Gimli had told him of his childhood. “You are not that Mzagal who caused the cave-in on Durin’s Day?” he asked.

Mzagal burst into delighted laughter, causing some Dwarves to glance curiously in their direction.

“Aye, aye, that was me,” she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “He told you that? How shamed my parents were! And I from a great caving family! Ah, they despaired of me then, and told me I would never be an engineer. ‘Fit only for the bakeries you’ll be!’ my mother said.” Mzagal smiled, but that smile faded when she turned to look at the wall, already in the first stage of rebuilding. 

“I hope she was not right, after all,” she added softly.

“No,” Legolas said, daring to touch her shoulder. “This evil was not your doing.”

“But some of the others say Gimli was wrong to give this project to me,” she said, speaking very quietly. “Bad luck, perhaps. Not because I am female--or not only that. You must not think we treat our females as do the Men: there is nothing in our life a Dwarf may do that is expressly forbidden to a Dwarf-maid. Even some of our Kings have been females. But there were some who grumbled when I was appointed: they said I was too young, or untested, or that my birth was not noble enough.”

“You need not fear so much,” Legolas told her. “We will find all those who had a part in these dark crimes. You may trust in that. As for the rest, I have only heard your name spoken with respect...and terror.”

Mzagal’s mouth quirked at that. “I drive them no harder than they deserve.”

“Indeed. I must go now; I will bring your well-wishes to Gimli.”

“Aye,” she said, her brow clearing. “That would be well. I thank you, my Lord.” She bowed again. “Please tell him all that is proper from me. And, perhaps ask him what he did on Durin’s Day, in his thirtieth year!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, y'all! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the amazing comments and feedback I have received. You are fantastic!
> 
> nosotras shared some art for this story! http://postimg.org/image/hj0k29hst/ AMAZING!

The Dwarves worked until the sun set over Minas Tirith.  Then Mzagal took lanterns and inspected every inch of the work that had been done that day.  If her thoughts were unsettled it did not show, for she was no more or less exacting than ever.  At last she dismissed the final group and left herself, greeting the night guards as she passed them by.

She began the long trek to the sixth level, where the Houses of Healing were located, idly wondering if her errand would be in vain and she ought just stop by Azagh’s rooms in case he had already returned there.  But she thought the gossip would have reached her already if that were so, and she kept on.

She asked an attendant for the way, and was very surprised to see her husband sitting there still, as grave as if he attended Azagh’s death bed.

“My dear!  Tell me not that he is so unwell!” she said, very shocked.  “Mizim told me this morning that he was not so bad.  I would have come much sooner!”

Burin started and rose to take his wife’s hands.    
  
“No, no, I hope he is not so bad!” Burin averred.  “But I did not like to leave him alone.”

Mzagal looked thoughtfully at her husband.  “You feel guilty, I suppose, that he went instead of you.”

“It ought to have been me,” Burin said quietly.

“You may think so, my dear, and perhaps in your place I would even think the same.  But I tell you, had Azagh known the danger he would have been twice as emphatic that you should not go.”  Mzagal spoke in her usual calm, certain way, and the words rang so true that Burin could not help smiling reluctantly.

She gripped his hands firmly in hers.

“You know I am right,” she continued.  “So grieve and blame yourself and tear your beard out if you must, but know that when he wakes he will call you a fool.”

“Aye,” Burin said.  “Then I will be glad to be called a fool, and much else besides!”

Mzagal laughed.  “Well, if you are in such an amiable mood then there is a favor I would like to ask you.”

At once Burin’s natural caution returned, and he regarded his wife with suspicion.  “Aye?”

“When the child is born I would like it to be called Azaghâl, if it is a boy, and Zaghâ, if it is a girl.  You may say such things are not often done, but it has been in my mind since we saved Gimli from the wreckage.  I could never have done such a thing on my own--nor indeed with the aid of anyone else!  If not for Azagh I think Gimli would have died.  Is that not worthy of remembrance, when Azagh has no child of his own?  

“So!  It would be for Gimli to name his child in honor of Azagh, but he will have none.”

Burin was silent and thoughtful.  Mzagal sat and waited patiently for his reply.

“What would the others say?” he wondered.

“Burin, does it matter so much?  We are far from Erebor now.  The world is changing, and if we want to survive I think we cannot retreat further and further into the caves of our fathers.”

“Tell me not that I have married a radical!” he said in horror, only half-joking.

She crossed her arms over her chest.  “You may jest, but ask yourself: would I have been given charge of the wall, in Erebor?  And yet I am not unworthy.”

“No, you are the best of your generation,” he said with pride, taking her hands again.  “And you might have had your pick of Dwarves.  Why you chose this lowly warrior I will never know.”

“As to that!  I had no more choice in the matter than you.”  Her voice was light, but her eyes upon him were very loving.

“I do not say nay.  But let me think on it.”

She inclined her head.  “I can ask no more.  It is not a decision to be made lightly.  Come, now, I do not think you have eaten today!  Let us go to the palace, and see how Gimli does.  I am sure that we will find welcome there.”

He frowned at her.  “You ask for much tonight!”

“Why, what danger can there be now, with my husband here to protect me?  At any rate, the Elf has invited me to come.”

Grumbling that he would not stand for her manipulation Burin followed her from the room.

  


Alone among the Dwarves Gimli had his own suite of rooms within the palace, as befitted a visiting lord and friend of the King.  He and Legolas sat at supper when Mzagal and Burin arrived.  Gimli hailed them with pleasure, and for some minutes the three of them were lost in affectionate greetings and exclamations.

_How does Azagh?  How does Mzagal?  How does Gimli?_  A fond smile crept over the Elf’s face as he listened to their talk.  Even in the midst of all this chaos there was an unconstrained joyfulness to their reunion.  It was something he had come to admire in the Dwarves.  Once, perhaps, he had thought them callous but they were a people that had endured centuries of suffering.  They had learned to celebrate the small joys of life, even in the midst of sorrow.

Gimli drew his friends to the table, inviting them to sit and eat.  “Here is roast fish, bread, cheese, meat pie, potatoes--” he said.

“Just the thing to tempt an invalid’s appetite,” Mzagal said teasingly, though she noticed Gimli drank water and not ale.  

Burin frowned at her across the table, but Gimli only laughed and agreed.  Mzagal wondered if the Elf had made clear how dire things really were in the city. Gimli was in excellent spirits for someone who had survived an assassination attempt!  But soon enough he was talking to Burin of all the practical matters that must be attended.  He seemed as sound of mind as ever, and Mzagal could not help but be relieved.

In nearly all things he was sensible, but when it came to discussing Aragorn’s plans to ride out he spoke wistfully of joining the Men, and of sending a company of Dwarves along with them, and the other three cried out against this plan nearly in unison.

“My dear, it is better you stay here, as we agreed.”

“It is true, my Lord!  We have too few warriors here, and with things so unsettled I would not leave our people unprotected.”

“Aye,” Mzagal said.  “Someone meant to kill you, Gimli, and Azagh and the others barely escaped with their lives.  We have been lucky, so far, but I would not wish to test our luck.”

Gimli gave them all a look of mingled amusement and annoyance.  “You call yourselves my friends!  Jailers, more like!  Aye, aye, I will not break my promise. And there is truth in what you say, I suppose.”  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as if he were suddenly very tired.

Suddenly he turned to the other two Dwarves.  “How _did_ it happen?  How were you able to rescue me?  Legolas did not know, when I asked him.”

Mzagal and Burin glanced at each other, and Mzagal reddened slightly.  Burin cleared his throat, and then he began to tell the story of what happened that night.  

Mzagal interrupted only once, to say, “Husband!  You embarrass me!” but she was quickly silenced by the others.

When Burin had finished his tale there was silence.  Gimli was the first to speak.  “It seems I owe you my life, little cousin!”

“Oh, hush!” Mzagal said, very much annoyed.  “If you must thank someone, then thank Azagh!  I could never have done it alone.  Indeed, I do not think anyone could have done it at _all_ save Azagh!”

“I would have said it could _not_ have been done at all,” Gimli said quietly.  “I do thank you, most sincerely Mzagal.”  

He gave her a very formal bow, and after a moment she acknowledged it in the proper way, with as much composure as she could muster.

The Elf saw how discomposed she was, and to change the subject he said gently, “You are kinsmen then?”

“He is only joking,” Mzagal said with a smile.  “All Dwarves are cousins, if only you go back far enough.  It is what he called me of old.”

“Aye, you were always chasing after us, were you not?  Until the day your mother took you away and put you in skirts.  How you did scream!”

“You, in skirts?” her husband said mockingly.  “What slander is this?”

She laughed.  “And yet it is true.  Poor mother!  How she did try.”

“Surely you must have put them off again!  I have never known you to wear them!”

“Well, yes,” she admitted.  “Mother said it was time I began to mind the household.  And so she took me shopping with her, and when Gralin saw me he called me _‘littlest and last’_ \--it is not a kind thing to say to a young, female Dwarf--” she explained for Legolas’s benefit, and continued, “So I beat him senseless in the public square.  Mother had to drag me off of him!  She was very angry--”

“Because you beat him?” Legolas asked.

“Oh, no!  She didn’t care at all about that, and anyway the wretch deserved it.  But rolling in the mud in my skirts, you know, was very unladylike and got the neighbors talking,” Mzagal laughed.  

“She let me take them off again and put it around that I was a late bloomer.  She thought she would try again in a few years.  But by then I had started my apprenticeship, and then I came of age, and she despaired of me.  She thought I would be one of those that never marries, and loves only their craft.”

“It is true,” Burin agreed.  “When I came to your honored mother’s house, to ask for your hand, she thought me half-witted.  ‘Are you sure it is not the Broadbeams down the way you want?’ she said.  ‘They have a daughter of marriageable age.’”

“Oh Burin, what detestable lies!  She said no such thing!”

The talk devolved into happy squabbles and reminiscences, until Mzagal declared that the hour was late and they must leave Gimli to his rest.

When they had gone Gimli shook his head in wonder.  

“You have certainly made an impression upon them!  What have you been saying and doing, I wonder?”

“I?” Legolas said in amusement, setting down his wine-cup.  “Why, what can you mean!  For the past hour and more I would swear you had all forgotten I existed.”

“Aye, exactly!  Whoever heard of Dwarves talking so freely before an Elf.  Husband!  Wife!  Why, they spoke in front of you just as if you were kin of theirs!”

“I hope you are not displeased,” Legolas said a little stiffly.

“No,” Gimli said, coming to stand before him with a deep smile in his eyes, “I am astonished.  If I had known all it would take to gain you their friendship was to get myself half-murdered I’d have done it years ago!”

But Legolas did not smile at the jest, and he looked away.

“Ah, come now lad.  What is it?”

“I did not know--even sitting by your side, while you walked in shadow--how close you came to death, until tonight.  Burin said it was a miracle that they pulled you out alive.  So did you.  You survived by the merest chance.  I can find nothing to laugh at in that.  If you had died--”

His voice broke, and Gimli caught him tight, in a crushing embrace.  

“I am here,” he said, offering what words of comfort occurred to him.  His heart beat very fast, and he wondered that Legolas did not remark upon it.  But Legolas suddenly seemed worn out with grief, and past speaking, and Gimli dreaded that the strange mood would come upon him and he would tell of his sea-longing.  

Much more than his own death did he fear the leaving of Legolas, and he cursed his careless tongue for raising the subject of his own mortality.

Legolas did not speak, but seemed to take some little comfort from the strong arms that embraced him.  Gimli stroked his pale silvery hair absently.  It was the most he could do, but so much less than he would have liked--!

A moment later Legolas pulled away from him, and smiled.  Gimli knew him well enough to know the smile was forced, and Legolas looked paler than usual. 

"This has been a merry evening," he said.  "I did not mean to spoil it."

"Ack!" Gimli said in disgust.  "And what has been spoiled, foolish Elf!"

Legolas did grin then.  "Nothing, save your good humor."  He leaned forward and kissed Gimli's forehead, the barest touch of lips, and before Gimli could react he had pulled away and was standing by the door.

"Can I trust you to find your own bed, and not go slyly to the barracks to join Aragorn's Men?"

Gimli smiled reluctantly.  "Perhaps if I did not know I would have a passel of wretched nursemaids hot on my heels I should risk it!"

Legolas put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly, as if acknowledging a great honor.  "Good night then, my dear.  I will see you in the morning."

"Aye.  Good night."

Legolas shut the door quietly behind him.  He had come perilously close to asking more of Gimli, in that last embrace, than he had any right to.  He had escaped only by the merest chance.  What Gimli's reaction might have been he could not imagine: surprise? shock? contempt for Elvish foolishness?

Or would he be insulted?  Or, worst of all to contemplate, might he submit only to keep Legolas's friendship and avoid giving offense himself?

Legolas left the palace.  It had not been Dwarves alone that had rebuilt Minas Tirith.  When he had brought his own people south to Ithilien he had brought them here, and they had planted the many gardens that now enlivened the city.  Before the war he had thought Minas Tirith a sad and faded place; Elves and Dwarves together had had a share in breathing life back into it.

He walked in the garden, coming to sit beneath a sapling made silvery by the moonlight.  He had planted this young tree with his own hands, and it knew him the way a young dog knows a beloved master.  If he closed his eyes he could almost believe himself to be in Ithilien, or the woods of his youth.  There was comfort here, but if he were honest it was not the comfort he longed for now.  Gimli's arms around him, strong as a young oak, would have been more to his liking.

He stayed in the garden until dawn, singing softly to himself and walking the familiar paths between the trees.  Before sunrise he heard the clamor of the soldiers before he saw them.  Aragorn led out his warriors on horseback to find the orcs.  Legolas watched them go, his impassive face showing none of the pain he felt in his heart.


	10. Chapter 10

“I thought him much improved,” Burin said in an undertone to his wife as they left Gimli’s rooms.

She nodded, and then halted in her tracks.

“Hmm?” he said, and turned to look; the Queen stood in a stone archway.

They bowed, and curiously she came close, her long skirts noiselessly brushing the flagstones.  Burin was surprised and a little nervous; though he had had many dealings with Aragorn he had none with the Elf-Queen.

“Good evening,” she said to them in her light sweet voice.  “I hope you found Gimli well?”

“Oh yes, highness, many thanks.”

“Mzagal,” Arwen said, “I would keep you a moment.”

Mzagal caught the glint of amusement in the Queen’s eye.  She was puzzled, but understood at once that the matter was delicate, something not to be discussed in front of males.  Some things were universal.

“Aye, my Queen, I am pleased to come with you,” she said, and took the Queen’s proffered elbow in a courtly way.

“Do not trouble yourself to wait, good Burin,” Arwen smiled.  “I will see that one of our guards returns Mzagal to you.”

Mzagal dared to glance backward to enjoy the stymied, confused expression on her husband’s face.  He was too fond of having his own way!  It disposed her well towards the Queen indeed, to have handled that just so!

“Mzagal,” Arwen said very softly when they were out of earshot.  “It is another matter I wish your help with, but I have meant to speak to you anyway.  You are close to your time.  Have you attendants of your own here?  Only say it, and I will be glad to wait upon you.”

Mzagal was very surprised, and could not speak for a moment.  “You know then?”

“My father was a great healer,” Arwen said, as if that explained everything.  Well, perhaps for an Elf it did.

“Why,” Mzagal said, stalling for time.  Why did the words never come easily to her tongue when she most needed them!  “I thank you, it is very kind, but there is…”

Arwen smiled.  “You need not answer yea or nay,” she said.  “Whatever aid I can offer you I give freely.  Only send for me, if you have need, in anything.”

How gracious she was!  Mzagal could only stammer thanks and bow.

“Now, for the other little matter,” Arwen said, leading them into an anteroom.  “The hoyden.  This youngster has been fighting with some other Dwarves in our hallowed halls.  She would not tell me what insult was given, but I believe it was a matter of honor.  I will say no more!” she added, when she saw that Mzagal would speak.  Again the Queen’s eyes were laughing.  “What pains I have taken to win the trust of your Dwarfling I shall not say; now I leave the matter in more capable hands.  I shall wait here.”

The Queen sat in a nearby chair and took up some embroidery, and Mzagal opened the door that had been indicated.

Of course it was Mizim, wicked child!  Though her eye had been blackened and bruises sprung up that had not been there that morning, she looked perfectly cheerful, perhaps due to the hearty meal that had been laid before her.

“What in the world--”

“Oh, do not scold, Mzagal!” Mizim protested.  “I just can’t bear it now.  Have some of this fine ale, won’t you?”

“Ale indeed!” she retorted tartly, taking the seat opposite.  “I see there is no justice in the world at all, when misconduct is rewarded thusly!  Is it not forbidden to fight when you have guard duty?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t on guard duty at the time.  Nor were they,” Mizim replied sulkily, not troubling to interrupt her meal.

“How came you to be fighting then?  Tell me all!” she added, when she saw Mizim would prevaricate.

Mizim sighed and set down her fork.  “Well, you won’t tell Burin, will you?  I can’t be taken from guard duty, Mzagal, I just can’t!”

Mzagal folded her arms over her chest.  “You ought to have thought of that before!”  

Seeing the crestfallen expression on the child's face, in a more yielding tone she added, “Mizim, tell me what happened.  I thought you beyond such foolishness--”

“Indeed, I am!” Mizim said indignantly.  “It was they who started it.  They insulted--”

“They insulted you?” Mzagal said, her eyebrows going up in surprise.  In spite of the hints the Queen had given, she had thought that unlikely.  She had heard more than one Dwarf that day hail Mizim as the little hero of the skirmish with the orcs.

“Well, no,” Mizim admitted.

“Mizim!” Mzagal yelled, losing patience.

Mizim mumbled something inaudible into her beard.    
  
“Child, if you don’t speak plainly I will make the beating you took earlier look like a bloody stroll in the marketplace!”

“This is nothing,” Mizim said with dignity.  “You should see them!”

“I’m sure I will later!  Now be plain!”

“It was the Elf,” Mizim said reluctantly.  “They said such things that were not true, Mzagal!  They would not heed me, nor would they apologize!”

“So you are fighting honor debts over _Elves_ now?”

“Not _all_ Elves, only this one.  Although the Queen was quite kind to me as well,” she added fairly.

Mzagal wanted to throw up her hands.  “It was only a week ago you were saying such things yourself!”

“Well, that was before I knew better,” Mizim said reasonably.

“You’ve grown up a lot in the last week, then, have you?” Mzagal asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” Mizim said fiercely.  “I have.  They can say what they like about me, Mzagal, but we would have died on the plains if Legolas had not come!  He is not at all like any other Elf.  And he is my friend.  I will not listen to anyone insult him, when he has been so honorable.   _You_ like him!” she added impertinently.

“ _Yes,_ I like him, but…”

“But what?  I should have listened to the others and said nothing?”

_The dratted child has me there,_ Mzagal thought in annoyance.  “Well, how many were there?  Three?” she asked brusquely, changing the subject.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Your brother Grâhal would be ashamed to see you with that shiner if there had been any fewer,” she replied dryly, and Mizim laughed in delight.

“Yes, that is true!  Wouldn’t he just!  Well, I did him proud, Mzagal, I can tell you!”

Mzagal just shook her head.  What was she to tell Burin?  His patience had been tried enough today.

“Listen, Mzagal, I wanted to tell you something else.”

“Mmm.”

“My brothers and I used to have a secret knock, back in Erebor,” she rapped it out on the table, three short knocks followed by two long.  “Can you remember that?”

“Aye,” Mzagal said, and repeated it.

“Yes, just like that.  Well, I have been thinking it would be good to use it here, too, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Oh, you know, Mzagal, anything might happen!” Mizim replied blithely.  “If I wanted you or something.  Or if you wanted me.  Anyway, if you heard it you’d know it was me right away.”

“Might I have committed some horrible crime, in a past existence?” Mzagal mused aloud.  “I feel as if I am being punished, and yet nothing I can recall doing in this life accounts for it.”

“That is another thing I have been thinking, Mzagal.  Do you suppose Legolas could be a Dwarf reincarnated as an Elf?  It quite horrifies one to think of, and yet it would explain why Gimli loves him, and why he’s been so courteous--”

“Stay,” Mzagal said, standing and holding up her hands for silence.  “No, I cannot hear any more nonsense this evening.  If you have quite finished your meal, I will escort you back to your rooms.”

“But--”

“Do not speak to me again this evening if you value your life, dear child.”

“Oh, but you won’t tell Burin, will you Mzagal?”

“Indeed, and if I do not speak to him, how will you account for your bruises at roll call tomorrow?”

“I could always say that I fell down the stairs.”

“And the other three Dwarves?  Were the stairs especially slippery this evening?”

Mizim opened her mouth.

“Do not answer that, Mizim.  I am quite serious.”

Mizim shut her mouth again.  

Mzagal opened the door.  Arwen sat there still, patient over her embroidery.  Was she smirking, very slightly, or did Mzagal imagine it?

“Thank you for all your kindness, my Queen,” she said, and bowed.  Then she kicked Mizim.

“Oh!  Yes, thank you very much, majesty, and thank you for the lovely supper!”

A look of understanding passed between the two older ladies, charged with sympathy on one side and long-suffering on the other.

Arwen called for guards to escort them back into the city, and to Mzagal’s surprise she accompanied them herself.  The Dwarves and Elf walked ahead, with the palace guards walking a few paces behind.  They left Mizim at her lodgings in the Street of Artifices, and then Arwen walked with Mzagal to her own home in the lower levels.

Curiously Mzagal felt a strange affinity for the Elf Queen.  She had never before had words with her, nor seen her save from a distance, nor indeed spared any thought to her person or what she might be like.  In truth, she thought of little beyond her own work, and the tight sphere that formed her dearest friends and family within the city.

Now she found herself wondering what this Lady’s life had been like, and the long years she had spent among her own people before falling in love with a mortal Man.  Like Mzagal, she had left a home among her people to live in this adopted city.  Was it for love of Aragorn alone, or did she grow to love Minas Tirith for its own sake?

She thought it would have been hard indeed if she had been forced to choose between Burin and a place which she loved.  They had made the decision to come south with Gimli together.  She had not wished to stay in Erebor, but if she had, and Burin had wanted to make the journey south, then what would she have done? Had Queen Arwen had any choice in the matter?

“I did not think you often left the palace without your ladies-in-waiting,” Mzagal said.

“I thought we might speak alone,” the Queen said with her gentle smile.  

Again, Mzagal felt that strange surge of fellowship.  She did not take to others easily or quickly, but one could not help but like Arwen for her own sake. _I did not wish you to be uncomfortable.  I did not wish you to walk alone,_ she seemed to be saying.

“It was as you suspected,” Mzagal said.  “The others insulted someone Mizim has come to...care for.”

“So I thought it might be.  I think I can guess who.”

“I would not say she is hot-headed.  So I think they must have forced the quarrel, which I cannot like.  I must tell Burin, though I hate to lay more cares upon him now.”

“Mzagal, is there aught I can do to ease these troubles?  I wish for nothing but friendship among our peoples, all our peoples.  Aragorn and I do honor what you have done for us.  We hold the Dwarves in highest esteem.”

Mzagal swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat.  Sentiment!  She blamed the child.  When she spoke her voice was calm.  “I am sure you know there are tensions in the city, my Queen.”

“I have been grieved by it.  I hope that Aragorn will find those responsible.”

“As do I.  Before this happened, I would have said that there was friendship between our peoples.  But perhaps there is more that can be done; perhaps we ought to have been doing more.”

“So I think as well,” the Queen said gravely.  “Mzagal, do you work upon the wall tomorrow?”

“Why, yes.  Of course.”

“May I visit you there?  I think now I should have done so before.  I am still feeling my way,” she admitted ruefully.  “I never thought to find myself here.”

_She means as Queen I suppose!  Why, I always thought she behaved as if she was born to it, but of course that isn’t so.  She has been an Elf-maid all her life; how could she have ever guessed she would become Queen of Gondor?_

And Mzagal felt a surge of sympathy, even pity, for this Queen who yet looked so young, thrust into a role she had never been prepared for.  Perhaps even Elves grew homesick; perhaps the Queen felt lonely apart from her people, surrounded by Men for the first time in her life.

“We would be honored.  I thank you.”

  
  
  


 

The days passed with no word yet from Aragorn, but some normalcy returned to the city.  The Queen led the change in sentiment.  She was true to her word and visited the Dwarves at work upon the wall the very next day.

Mzagal's engineers were prepared to be obstinately unimpressed, but as Arwen walked among them with her attendants she slowly won them over.  She took the time to speak to everyone; she seemed to know each Dwarf by name, and the name of his father.  She had not often been among them, but it was clear they were not unknown to her.  The change was subtle, but sharp-eyed Mzagal saw it, and she was amused to watch the Dwarves unbend and turn towards Arwen, like so many pendulous blossoms finding the sun.  And then there was Arwen herself, looking once or twice quite pointedly in Mzagal’s direction as if she guessed her thoughts, with a secret smile that only she could see.

At the end of the visit Arwen came to take her leave.  

"This morning I received word from the Houses of Healing.  They have told me Azagh is awake, and already clamors to leave his bed.”

Mzagal grinned.  “Aye, he is as tough a nut as you will find amongst us.”

“Still, they tell me it would not do him harm to remain there another day or two.  So I go now to persuade him; I hoped you might join me?”

Normally nothing could tear her away from the wall during work hours, but Mzagal had been longing to see him herself since she had received the message that morning.  Besides, it was nearly time for the midday meal.  

“Aye, I would be pleased,” Mzagal said, after a brief hesitation.

If surprised looks followed them, among the Dwarves and the Men, Mzagal thought it was all to the good.  Let her friendship with the Queen be known.  With any luck Aragorn would find the orcs and discover the source of their betrayal.  She would do her part to ensure the friendship among their peoples was not sundered. They needed a period of tranquility, Mahal knew!  

Before now she had always left politics to Burin, taking little interest in them herself.  Her own position had always felt too precarious to interfere elsewhere.  But now she began to think that it might even be necessary to interest herself, and to interfere.

_We cannot retreat further into the caves of our fathers,_ she had said to Burin, and was it not true?  See in the last Age, how Elves and Dwarves had kept to their separate destinies, eschewing friendship; where were they now?  The Elves left for their Undying Lands--likely they would be gone within a generation of Dwarves. And as for the Dwarves--how many kingdoms remained of their once mighty empire!  There were fewer Dwarf-children were born in Erebor every year.

If they wished to survive this new Age, into whatever might come beyond it, she thought they must throw in their lot with Men.  This little colony, this experiment of Gimli’s in Rohan was already defying the expectations of the naysayers.  There was respect and admiration between the Rohirrim and the Dwarves, and she was not alone in thinking that there they were building something--and not a fortress, only--that would last for many generations.

“I have been wondering,” the Queen said, “about our earlier discussion.  Women and Elf-maids attend me...might there be youngsters among you that would take a turn as pages, to myself or to the King, when he is returned?”

“We are few in number, for the work that is required, and none of us is idle,” Mzagal said slowly.  “But I think it could be arranged, perhaps for a few hours each day.  It is for Gimli to say, but I think the idea would please him.”

“Thank you.  I will speak to him.”

The Queen asked her questions then, about the wall, and the type of stone that was used, and the progress of the work.  Mzagal was very occupied in answering these on the walk to the upper levels.  Only later did she realize the Queen was perhaps not so interested in hearing whole soliloquies about stonework and masonry, and that the questions had only been asked to put her at her ease.  But she was not offended--the thought only made her laugh, and she admired the Queen’s cleverness; her interest had appeared perfectly intelligent and genuine.  

Arwen proved equally good at managing Azagh, who like many who are used to dispensing advice was not at all pleased to take it himself when the time came. Azagh, usually so good-natured, was rather cross and disagreeable during their visit.  He wanted only to get up and resume his former duties; with gentleness and skill Mzagal watched the Queen beguile him into a better humor.  

She let the Queen take the greater part in their discussions, only putting in a word here and there when it was required or she saw that Arwen wanted her to; and so between them they managed Azagh.  If a sly look or two passed between them then they were too sly for even Azagh to notice.

At the end of three-quarters of an hour Mizim toddled in, dragging a _hnefatafl_ board and pieces.  Azagh nearly dropped the glass he was holding.

"By Mahal!  What the devil have you done to your face!"

"Nothing at all," Mizim said, and began briskly and dishonestly defending herself while the other two ladies made good their escape.

As they parted in the hallway outside something unsaid and yet understood passed between them.  Yes, it had been a good morning’s work, and they had each played their part well in it.  Mzagal kissed the Queen’s hand in view of the guards, and returned to the worksite well-satisfied with the morning’s labor.  If only this peace would last!


	11. Chapter 11

Two or three days had passed since the morning Aragorn had left; Gimli was eager to put Arwen’s scheme into action and doughty Mizim was chosen as the first Dwarvish attendant to the Queen. As soon as her bruises had healed to a respectable pale lavender she was eagerly reporting to the Queen’s private chambers to receive her duties; if she was disappointed that these consisted of little more than carrying Eldarion about the gardens and retrieving his dropped toys from the fountain then she was far too diplomatic to show it.

In truth she liked children; she had nephews at home in Erebor, and she told Eldarion about them as she dropped enormous smacking kisses onto his cheeks. Eldarion was too young to answer intelligibly, but he would respond in kind and he seemed to prefer her to most of his devoted subjects. Mizim grew to like the Queen as well, and the hour or two she spent with them each day made a nice change from guard duty and running errands for crotchety Azagh.

Sometimes Legolas would join them in the gardens, and he and the Queen would sit together speaking quietly in Elvish. Once Mzagal tried to teach them _hnefatafl_ , but alas they seemed not to have the brains to understand it. It was too bad! They were certainly to be pitied. She was determined that Eldarion should not be deprived of the pleasure, and so she set about teaching him the game, laying the board in the soft grass some little distance from the Elves.

“I fear your student is yet too young to understand the game,” Legolas observed in soft amusement when Eldarion would eat the pieces.

“No such thing,” Mizim replied cheerfully. “This is the best time to start teaching them. By the time he’s old enough to talk he’ll understand the rules, and in two or three years he’ll be as good as Azagh!”

“Is Azagh very good?” the Queen asked.

“Oh no, he’s awful,” Mizim replied artlessly. “It comes of not having enough Dwarves to play with when he was young, I expect, but don’t worry! I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen to Eldarion.”

“We are most grateful,” the Queen said, with an expression that Mzagal would have enjoyed seeing.

“Oh, it’s nothing! I like to do it. Only I wish you could play too! But you know, Legolas, Gimli could probably teach you. He’s very good.”

A look of distinct unease crossed the Elf’s face, and Arwen had to hide her laughter in a gentle coughing fit.

However, these gentle pursuits seemed to be having their desired effect; as relations increased between the palace household and the Dwarves the tensions that had been gripping the city were eased. The people loved their Queen, and even those that would criticize Aragorn could find no fault in her. 

When groups of Dwarves visited the taverns and the marketplaces there were not so many unpleasant whispers following their progress; Men who had formerly looked upon the Dwarves as friends now sheepishly renewed their acquaintance. If the Dwarves were offended and wounded in dignity, then at least they were as quick to forgive as they were to anger.

Things were not as they had been before, but with luck Mzagal thought they could be--or better perhaps. She was too busy to see much of Arwen, or help with her domestic plots (though she spared whatever Dwarves Gimli requested without demur) but she was excessively relieved. She and Burin were so busy they scarcely saw one another from morning to night, but now it felt as if things were returning to their former state, and the work they did was being received with gratitude rather than suspicion.

 

A scream pierced the darkness, quickly cut off, and Mzagal bolted upright in bed. Beside her, Burin cursed in colorful Khuzdul and knocked over a table.

Mzagal was up and dressing before her brain had even made sense of the noise, and then there was a quick sharp knock at the door. Burin had lit a candle; they exchanged looks.

“Stay--that is Mizim!” Mzagal said. The knock repeated--three short raps followed by two long. 

“What? Wife, why do you have secret knocks with Mizim!”

She ignored him and ran down to open the door, calling behind her, “Gather your weapons, fool! Can you not see they are needed?”

She flung open the door and Obur and Mizim tumbled inside.

“What is it? Ack, Obur, you reek of ale!”

“Never mind that!” Mizim said. “We’re under attack. Orcs have entered the city.”

“What! Impossible! The gates could not have fallen!” Burin cried out, even as he pulled on his armor.

“They have not; the orcs entered by a secret way, and there are swarms of them. They have already overwhelmed the few guards left in the city--”

“How many warriors on this level?”

“Two dozen,” Mzagal answered at once; it was her business to know all the details of management and supply. “And three dozen axes. Most in this street, thank Mahal. We will need all that can wield a blade. How many orcs, Mizim?”

“I do not know. I only saw from a distance, but I fear there may be many hundreds. They have not yet breached this level, but--”

“Go, husband! Why do you linger?”

Still Burin hesitated a moment, and Mizim and Obur looked away while he and Mzagal embraced. 

“I will stay with Mzagal,” Mizim said promptly.

“Thank you, Mizim. Thank you. Obur--”

“Take him not, I must send word to the upper levels and gather the others.”

“Very well,” he said, giving her a last lingering glance. “May we meet again.”

“Mahal bless you.”

“And you.”

Burin ran out of the door, and as soon as he was gone Mzagal turned to Mizim.

“We are not staying here.” 

“I know that! Why do you think I phrased it so?”

“You do not mean to go into battle!” Obur protested. 

“Hush, Obur. I must organize. Go at once to the Street of Artifices in the upper level and gather all the Dwarves there. We meet at the third gate. All the main gates are open I fear, but the orcs must still wend their paths through the city. Hurry!”

Obur left, and Mizim helped Mzagal into her remaining armor. 

“My axe--yes, thank you, Mizim, let us go.”

 

Mzagal did not choose the bridge overlooking the gate as her post, but instead she and Mizim climbed to the top of one of the many sturdy stone-built houses overlooking the street. Here Mzagal found a place in the gap between eave and stone chimney where she could sit at her ease, well-protected. From across the street a curious early-riser looked out from an upper window at the two dwarves. 

“Orcs attack the city! Barricade yourselves inside!” Mzagal shouted. The shutter slammed at once.

“It still bears two hours to dawn. What were you doing about the city at such an hour? I hope you are not courting without your parents’ leave!” Mzagal said, sounding very motherly.

“Faugh! What Dwarf is there in the city to tempt me?” Mizim said indignantly, and Mzagal hid her smile.

“Well, then?”

“I met Obur coming back from an alehouse, he was gambling!” Mizim trilled, and Mzagal sighed. 

“Yes, but what of you?”

“Well, if you must know I was following the Elf--”

“Mizim! He is Gimli’s Elf-Lord!” Mzagal said, scandalized.

Mizim giggled, “Mzagal, I do not mean in that way! I don’t fancy him, goose! Not everything is a romance you know. He left the palace early and I wanted to know where he went, that is all.”

Mzagal sighed. “If you stick your nose everywhere you will get it cut off!”

“Yes, _by orcs_ perhaps,” Mizim said pointedly. “Do not forget that! If I had not been abroad so early you’d still be in your bed!”

“The scream woke me,” Mzagal averred dryly, and Mizim ignored this. 

“He said he sensed the danger before, when I left with Azagh and the others. I thought perhaps it was something like that, for I could not think why else he would leave Gimli. That is why I followed him.”

“And you found your danger.”

“Yes, but he did not lead me to it! He went only to one of the gardens the Elves built, and he walked among the trees for a while, and sang his Elvish songs.”

“Which you soon tired of, and left.”

“Well, yes!” she admitted. “I thought I would walk along the streets by myself, for a while, because I was not at all tired, and that is when I met Obur. Then he would know why I was abroad--as if it was any of his business!--and then we both heard something and two orcs attacked us! We fought them off, but I tell you, Mzagal, it was not at all like when they ambushed us on the road. These were much tougher, and harder to kill.”

“Scouts?” Mzagal murmured to herself, but nodded that Mizim should continue.

“Well, we were quite near one of the watchtowers, so I dragged Obur along, and we found the guards there dead. Mzagal, I tell you they were taken quite by surprise. They had not even drawn their weapons. I think that someone--orcs, perhaps, but perhaps not!--went among the towers and killed all the guards, and that is why no alarm has been sounded.

“From the tower, I could see that there were many guards dead on the outer wall, and the orcs were already inside the city. But the orcs had not breached the wall! So I knew they must have come from within--come by the sewers, perhaps, or a secret way. And, Mzagal, they were very stealthy and quiet! They made no noise at all as they moved through the city.”

“They mean to take us by surprise. It is no coincidence that the King rode out days ago, leaving the city unprotected...this was all planned, at least as far back as the ambush on Anórien...”

“So I think too! They may have attacked us only to lure out the warriors, and leave the city unguarded! Obur wanted to cry out then, and raise alarm, but I thought it would only bring the orcs down around our ears, and the sleeping people from their houses--”

“No, you did right. It is not yet dawn, may they sleep awhile yet! The King took the greatest force from the city--we may be all that stands in the way of the slaughter of many innocents.”

“We were quite close to your house, and so we came there at once,” Mizim finished, in an abruptly subdued voice.

The door in the house across the street opened, and a youth--perhaps 19 or 20--came out in mail, bearing a sword. He saluted Mzagal and Mizim smartly, and began to climb up to their perch.

Mizim hefted her axe and looked sharply at Mzagal, but she held up her hand to stay.

The young Man stopped at a lower gable, and called out a greeting.

“Is it true? Do orcs attack the city?”

“Someone let them in,” Mzagal said brusquely. “Many guards are dead, and even now they travel towards us by stealth.”

The youth gripped his sword tightly, and said in a low voice, “My father would not take me to ride out with him. Never, did I think to see action here! Tell me, Sir Dwarf, where would you bid me go?”

Mizim looked at Mzagal in surprise, but the older Dwarf did not bat an eye. “Are there others your own age nearby who can wield weapons? If you can bring them quietly, and quickly, then do so. You may put the word about, but bid the people stay inside! We will do our best to protect them.”

“Aye, Sir! I am called Htafal, son of Hefal.”

“Well met, Htafal; I am Mzagal, this is Mizim. Quickly now--and if there be any archers, send them first of all.”

The boy ran off, and Mizim breathed out a thoughtful sigh.

“Well!” she said. “We still have some friends in the city, it seems!”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Mizim--do not forget that, for it cuts both ways!”

Minutes later the Dwarves arrived, many of them Mzagal’s builders, who lodged together in the Street of Artifices. At once Mzagal called out to them quietly, and with mine-signs motioned that they should all find higher ground. She thought the orcs would seek them out, and wanted to yield no ground so early. They found places on roofs and crouched on balconies, and a half dozen took hold of the bridge. Mzagal motioned that all should be still until they received her sign.

Htafal returned then, leading boys and one girl with a bow, and Mzagal motioned that they should find look-outs on the roofs above. 

“Wait for my sign!” she called softly, and demonstrated. “Husband your arrows, for they will be needed to cover the other fighters.”

“Sir,” Htafal said, “I have sent messages to the other houses, more fighters will come, and I have said that the people should stay indoors.”

“Very well, but all take care! These are not ordinary orcs, and I fear they will be stronger and cleverer than you may be used!”

Then Mzagal motioned for silence and stillness, and the Dwarves crouched in readiness. All was as Mzagal might have wished, save that there were no Dwarvish archers among them. _Where is the Elf?_ she wondered. She hoped that he had found his way back to Gimli’s side.

 

 

The sharpest-eared among them heard the tinny jangle of armor and weapons long before the orcs were seen, the sound muffled enough that it might have been mistaken for something far less sinister. Yes, these orcs were clever and determined of purpose, and Mzagal dreaded the coming meeting. 

All Dwarves learned to fight, that was true. But only a handful of these had received serious training, and most of those were youngsters like Mizim who had never seen battle.

 _But I am forgetting, Mizim fought the orcs on the plains of Anórien,_ she reminded herself, shifting uncomfortably against the stone chimney. _So. The most veteran warrior amongst us is a child two years short of her majority._

Mzagal allowed no hint of these doubts to cross her face, and to the others she was as impassive as ever. But inside she was troubled--why did they not hear the sounds of battle coming from the first wall? Burin and the others should have certainly gathered together and engaged the orcs by now. She refused to allow herself to think of the worst--that her husband might be dead, already, but she could not dispel her fears. 

The engineers looked to her so trustfully! 

_Mahal, do not let me fail them!_ she begged. _Keep us safe. Keep Burin safe. Keep the child safe._

The orcs were nearly upon them. She closed her eyes in silent prayer. 

“Mzagal,” a soft voice said behind her, and she turned.

“My Lord,” she said, somehow not surprised to see the Elf there, crouched on the roof. In spite of herself her heart rose; the Elf had been there during the ambush in Anórien, and they had all survived. Never would she have admitted it, but he seemed to bring good luck with him.

Gathering her wits, she said sharply, “If you mean to go to the palace you had best go now, before the fighting starts.”

The look he gave her then was one she would not forget--he looked conflicted and unsure. Almost...mortal.

But when he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice. “There are still guards at the palace. It is the safest place in the city now. He would not wish me to go.”

Before Mzagal could respond, Mizim said in a cheeky voice, “But you have no weapon. Caught with your pants down, we’d say!”

“Mizim!” Mzagal said, horrified.

The Elf laughed. “You are right. But I did not know my bow would be needed, and there was no time to fetch it.”

A bow and quiver were quickly found, and passed to him, with apologies from their owner that they were not of Elvish make. But this Legolas would not hear, and he received them as graciously as if they had come from the hands of Galadriel herself.

“Where do you bid me?” he asked Mzagal.

“There--spend your arrows carefully, for I will need you to cover the others. Await my sign!”

Mizim gripped her axe eagerly. The pre-battle energy fairly crackled in the air, and she longed to hew down orcs with her axe. Mzagal would not allow any of them to go below yet, but she vowed she would be among the first when the sign was given (forgetting entirely, of course, that she had promised Burin she would stay with Mzagal). The chiefest wish of her heart was to distinguish herself in battle, and though of course she would have readily agreed it was a terrible thing that orcs attacked the city, she looked forward to the fight with an eagerness that few of the others could have matched.

The quiet _jang-jang-jang_ of their accursed armor grew louder as they approached, but when they gained the bridge at last no set of eyes was upon them save one. Mzagal watched the orcs, and the others watched Mzagal. She held her arm high, that it might be seen even in the darkness. 

She did not like their numbers, stretching endlessly into the darkness. How many were there? And where was Burin, who should have been dogging their heels with three dozen Dwarves at his side?

The first wave of orcs had passed under the bridge when she let her arm fall. A roar, enormous in strength, rose from the allied forces and two dozen Dwarves crashed to the street. Luck was with them, at first. The orcs, having met no resistance so far, were taken wholly by surprise, and twenty had fallen to Dwarvish axes before they had mustered any defense. The archers were heeding Mzagal’s words, and aimed only for those orcs that threatened to overwhelm the ground forces.

A strange thing happened then. The force of the Dwarves was not overwhelmed, as Mzagal had feared, although the orcs still streamed into the street. A full half marched past the Dwarves as if they were not there. Those engaged fought fiercely, but there were neither arrows nor axes enough to challenge those that marched on past the fray. 

Mzagal’s heart pounded in her chest, thinking of Gimli in the palace. How many of his guards had Aragorn left behind? Her gaze locked with Legolas, and she knew the same thoughts must be in his mind. Nevertheless, the Elf did not leave them and her esteem for him grew. What were they, to him, after all? Perhaps Elves could fight the truth of their hearts no more than could Dwarves, but even if that were so what loyalty did Legolas owe them? And yet he stayed.

She watched the battle rage in the street below, occasionally calling out a warning or instruction exactly as she might have at the work site. They could only hope to slow the coming forces. These orcs were wily and great in number, and she watched their progress to the palace unhappily. They seemed to have abandoned stealth, and the vanguard force was running ahead. 

Dawn was coming, and she could pick out Mizim’s light hair easily in the street below. _That child must have been born under a bright star,_ she thought. Mizim whirled tirelessly, surefooted on the cobblestones below, knocking orcs left and right.

Around them people were opening shutters, woken by the noise, and there was an anxious murmur rising from the houses that was audible even over the sound of battle. A crash startled her, and she turned sharply to her left, in time to see another chamberpot being flung from an upper window and landing on the orcs below. More followed as the people flung open their windows to throw down plates, furniture, and rotten food at the invaders.

For the first time that morning Mzagal laughed aloud, and her heart lightened. This city would not be taken so easily!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short update, but the next one will be much longer. I'm working on it now. Thanks for all your patience! I haven't forgotten this story, I just haven't had time to work on it. But I hope things are starting to calm down for me now (fingers crossed!) and that I will be able to finish it soon!

The city was still blanketed in pre-dawn darkness as Burin gathered the three-dozen Dwarves that slept nearby. It had taken only a few precious minutes for his people to throw on their armor and take up their axes, and they crept soft-footed to the outer-wall listening furiously for any noise from the intruders.

_It’s like some mad game of hide-and-go seek_ , Burin thought.

One of his lieutenants was the first to reach the the staircase leading to the top of the wall; he looked back for confirmation and Burin nodded silently. The Dwarves crept up the stairs, and Burin was among the first dozen to breach the top of the wall.

Bodies of Men littered the stone floor; Men killed violently and taken unawares. Most had not had time to draw their swords, which meant they had been far outnumbered. Burin shook his head in disgust and unease--where was this force of orcs now? The bodies of the Men were still warm. The Dwarves walked among them, checking for survivors but there were none here.

“Burin!” someone whispered, and he turned around at once.

It was Glodhi, one of their few true warriors. The other Dwarf motioned to him, and he hurried along. Some of the younger Dwarves had fanned out along either length of the wall, and Burin saw what they had found--a few dead orcs, most killed with arrows, lay upon the parapet.

“The arrows--”

“Aye. It looks like a retreat. There may yet be some survivors.”

Burin looked down the stone walkway, still wreathed in darkness.

“Very well,” he said. “Glodhi, take half the Dwarves and go the other way--see what can be found. I will take the others and look for survivors. Search for the orcs, but do not engage them if you find yourselves outnumbered! There is something very rotten about this. I will not risk the defense of the city to kill a few orcs. We must find them, and then rejoin the other forces.”

“Aye, sir!” 

Burin turned back and nodded to the others--only 18 axes now!--that they should follow him, and he led them into the darkness.

 

 

Gimli awoke in the King’s palace. Light reflected back from the walls upon his face, but something else had woken him. A sound? He dressed, and then opened the door to his room.

His two minders stood guard there, and he favored them with an ironic look before walking out into the hallway.

“My lord! Er, where do you go so early?” one asked as they trotted after him.

“To see what that noise was,” he replied drily.

“Noise? I heard no noise.”

“Get your hearing checked, then, lad,” Gimli advised kindly. There was a look-out at the end of this hallway, was there not? Ah, yes. Gimli unlatched the shutter and peered out the window, then he drew a sharp breath.

The two Dwarves crowded close to see what had taken his interest. The window overlooked the walkway leading into the palace. Hundreds of orcs approached the palace gates.

Gimli turned at once and ran for his room, followed by the two youngsters.

“Lord Gimli, what are you doing?” one asked, almost timidly. 

He gave the child an irritated glance. “I’m going to kill orcs, lad,” he said with exaggerated patience as he pulled his armor on.

“But--but we were told you were not well enough--that you must rest--” the other stuttered.

Gimli laid two heavy gauntleted hands upon their shoulders. “Would you have me die in my bed?” he inquired of them kindly. “Slaughtered like a meek little lamb?”

“No, sir!”

“Of course not!” came their shocked reply.

“Then suit up lads. Something awful has happened for orcs to be upon the very gates of the palace. I cannot guarantee any of us will survive this day, but I promise you that we will die like Dwarves!”


	13. Chapter 13

Burin led the way as they crept along the darkened passageway. He could hear the sound of fighting nearby, but the sound was faint and distorted by the echoes through the stone halls.

“Dargl,” he hissed, and a burly Dwarf darted to his side.

“Sir?”

“How far do you make that? You know these halls, do you not?”

“Aye, sir,” Dargl said. He had been assigned to the first project the Dwarves had undertaken, the rebuilding of the outer walls. He worked as an armorer now, and had maintained friendly relations with the city guards.

Dargl listened carefully. “It is one level down,” he said. “The armory lies in that direction. If the Men made it there they could have barricaded themselves inside. There may yet be survivors.”

“Then that sound may not be fighting--they may be under siege.”

“It is possible.”

“Lead on Dargl.”

The others fell in behind and Dargl guided them through the warren of passageways. The narrow staircases that led below would be a blessing when fighting off an invading army, but they also made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Burin was right on Dargl’s heels, tense and expecting to stumble right upon the orcs at any moment.

It was nearly the case; they turned into another passageway and there were the orcs--some three dozen perhaps--attacking the door to the armory.

Burin was delighted; it meant they were only outnumbered two to one. 

_“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_ he cried, and led the Dwarves into battle. 

There was no need to speak to the others; he fought and trusted they would do the same. The orcs were taken by surprise and had no time to rally in the narrow corridor. In a few short minutes the Dwarves had killed the last of them. Burin quickly scanned the hallway; none of his party had been killed or injured; good!

He rapped sharply upon the door to the armory with his axe handle.

“Men of Minas Tirith! Your city is under attack!”

He was surprised to hear a kind of scuffle behind the door. Frowning he drew back and hefted his axe, motioning to the others to hold steady. 

In a moment the door was opened. Burin saw a number of soldiers inside, apparently unharmed, save for one who lay on the ground.

One Man stepped forward, surveying the carnage in the hallway. 

“Sir Dwarves!” he stammered. “I know not how to thank you. I hope you will not think badly of us for retreating. I swear on my father’s name we do not lack for courage!

“But it is my shame to tell you we followed our captain’s orders. I fear--I suspect--”

The Man choked on his words and seemed too overcome with emotion to continue.

“Your captain is that Man there?” Burin said, glancing down at the prone Man.

“Aye, sir. I--we think he may have colluded with the enemy,” this last was uttered almost too low to hear; the Man seemed deeply shamed. Burin glanced quickly at the others--the men were stone-faced but obviously chagrined.

Burin grunted. “Do not take offense if I say I would not be surprised. Something foul is at work here. You must know the orcs were able to enter the city by a secret way.”

“Aye, sir,” came the uneasy reply.

“But we cannot speak of these things now. Come, Men, and join us in defense of the city!”

 

 

Mzagal watched the progress of the orcs with dissatisfaction; they could but slow the tide. Their numbers were too few to stop every orc from crossing the lines of their defense. A steady stream was still making its way towards the palace. 

She climbed up to a higher point upon the roof, surveying her fighters. Legolas was low on arrows. She had sent one of the young Men to find more, and she hoped that he would soon return. She shifted uncomfortably upon her perch. 

“Mzagal!” a familiar voice cried, and she turned in surprise and relief to see Burin, approaching the bridge at the head of several dozen massed Men and Dwarves.

“I told you to stay inside!” 

“No such thing, nor would I have listened in any case! Mizim protects me! Look to your own business, Burin, and do not shame me in the public street,” Mzagal called back spiritedly.

Some of the Men heard this exchange and smiled upon Burin.

“Your brother?” Ennal asked.

“My wife,” Burin admitted in a gruff voice, and the Men near enough to overhear cried with laughter.

At once he was congratulated and commiserated, and in between blows exchanged with the orcs they showered fortune upon his head, and that of his courageous spouse, calling out such witticisms as occurred to them. If Burin was embarrassed, then perhaps his embarrassment was matched by his pleasure, for he could see that the Men were sincere in their praise.

Burin had often had cause to observe that nothing so brought an angry and fractious pack of Dwarves together as a good fight; now he saw it was also true of Dwarves and Men. There had been no time for argument or discussion on the march into the heart of the city. Ennal, the Man who had first spoken to him in the armory, had taken charge of the Men but seemed content to take his orders from Burin.

Burin could not help liking the Man; he fought well.

With a final reluctant glance at his recalcitrant spouse he called to the others, “Come! We must make for the palace!”

 

 

Gimli could not help thinking of the Battle of the Hornburg as he stood with the guards behind the barricaded doors of the palace. Then, the Elf had been with him. Where was Legolas now?

Impatiently, he pushed the thought aside and hefted his axe. Waiting was always the hardest part; the uneasy calm before battle, listening to your enemy rattle at the gates. It was enough to disquiet even hardened warriors, but the two youngsters were as stoic as he could have wished, and the guards chosen to defend the palace were among the most seasoned veterans of Aragorn’s soldiers. 

They were all massed here, at the gates--a scant fifteen Men and three Dwarves. It had not escaped Gimli’s notice that the orcs had attacked after Aragorn had taken his army out of the city, across the plains, days past the point of recall.

The whole thing is rotten, he thought. It was clear the attack on the Dwarves in Anórien had been carefully planned to draw out the Men of Minas Tirith, so that the orcs could then attack the city at their leisure. What other purpose could they have but to ransack the city and kill the innocent?

And yet they had driven towards the palace with all speed and their greatest force was here now, pounding at the doors. Unlike Aragorn’s palace, the Hornburg had been a fortress, and yet even there the orcs had broken through…

How many Dwarves were left to defend the City? How many Men? He did not doubt that his people must be abroad now, fighting back this host of orcs, and there lay their only hope in whatever defenders of the city remained. The orcs would break through these doors if left unchecked, and eighteen against such a number--fifteen old men, two untried youths, and himself, still not at his full strength…

He gripped his axe handle suddenly. The orcs could not possibly hope to win the city; Aragorn would return in a few days time and rout them, and their numbers were not such that they could offer any real resistance to such a force. What then was their purpose here?

“Dwarves, to me!” he cried out suddenly. “Men, defend the doors! Hold them back as long as you may!”

The two young Dwarves looked at Gimli in surprise, but followed Gimli unquestioningly as he bolted back into the palace.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we are back! Hooray! Sorry for the extended absence, the last few months I have had about half a dozen of those Big Life Events in a row :P
> 
> Hopefully things will be calmer for a while and I can get this finished! Thanks so much for reading! All comments are super appreciated.

His worst fears were allayed as soon as he saw the carved white doors; he knew that nothing yet had happened. 

In the event he did not even need to knock. The doors opened and there stood Arwen, Queen of Gondor. They exchanged a look, level and knowing, and Gimli felt he did not even need to speak. She knew all that he would say.

He had known her grandmother, and of the two he had thought Galadriel the more beautiful. It had not been any one quality, nor her mere physical beauty that had arrested him. It had been her spirit, shining forth pure and unalloyed from her physical body, unlike any other--Elf, Man, or Dwarf--that he had ever known. There would never be another being like Galadriel; of that he was certain, and he treasured his memories of her as dear as the three golden hairs she had given him.

In this moment he thought that her granddaughter Arwen had never looked so much like her; never before had he seen her spirit shining so close to the surface.

“Lady,” he said at last, “you know orcs attack the city. They cannot hope to take Minas Tirith. That is not their purpose. They are here for you, and for your son. They do not need to destroy the city, or the King, to have their revenge. They seek to rip the White Tree out by its root.”

“They will not have my son,” she said. Her voice was quiet and calm, but there was a granite-hard quality to it.

He had noted that the Queen was armed--unusual for her--and now her hand came to rest lightly upon the hilt of the sword at her hip.

“No, my Queen,” Gimli agreed. “They will not. We will see to it.”

Within the nursery he could see the child, and Arwen’s two Elvish handmaidens. For love of their mistress they stayed in Middle-Earth, and he was certain they would give their lives to protect her. He had never feared death, and he did not fear it now. But he wondered if this at last was where he would meet it. It was an eerie feeling, this isle of calm, as they waited for the attack to come. Would this be the hour of his death? Of all of their deaths? He met the gaze of each Lady in turn, sure their thoughts matched his own. Even the child was somber.

“Queen Arwen, is there no secret way to leave the palace? No way by which you might escape?” he said suddenly.

“There is such a way,” she replied, and for a moment his heart rose. “But I will not take that path. This trap was laid long ago, dear Gimli; this treachery is deep, and I cannot trust that road would not lead to death.”

“Aye, Lady,” he said with a sigh. Dwarves had rebuilt the city gates; he himself had had a hand in the wroughting of them. He knew they had not fallen, and so the orcs had almost certainly entered the city by some secret way. So they must assume all such ways were compromised.

Arwen smiled then, and it was a smile he remembered seeing on Galadriel’s face. Almost he could hear that dearly-remembered voice in his mind. Come, Gimli! Take heart. Hope is not yet lost! 

“Will you break your fast?” she asked. “You have not eaten yet, I think, and the hour is not yet upon us.”

He nodded, his gaze turning again to the other two Elves and the child. Three Dwarves, three Elves, and the son of the King of Men, he thought. What a motley crew we are! How unlikely would such a meeting have been before the War. And yet I have found myself in stranger company. He smiled.

There are certainly the beginnings of a fine epic here. The thought cheered him a great deal.

They ate a simple meal of bread and cheese and fruit, and they spoke of other things, which often happens at such times. None of them remarked upon the noise, faintly audible even here, and none of them wondered aloud when the palace gates might fall. There were hesitant introductions between the Dwarves and the handmaidens; by and by some common ground was found on gardening and they discussed the cultivation of herbs. Gimli smiled, but let them steer the conversation; he and Arwen did not speak.

The Queen held her child in her lap, stroking his dark hair. Gimli supposed she was thinking of Aragorn.

At Helm’s Deep while waiting for battle he had told Legolas that there were fossils in the caverns. These were creatures that had once dwelt at the bottom of an ocean that had covered all of Middle Earth. They had left their impression in the stone, revealed when the ocean had retreated. He had told Legolas he had even seen fossils, shells, high up in the Lonely Mountain.

Legolas had been amazed. “I have never seen the ocean,” he had said wonderingly. “To think that once it must have covered all these lands.”

“Before even your people came,” Gimli had teased. “There are some things in the world that make even you look young!”

It was a pleasant memory but it pained him now; Legolas had fought by his side then. Where was the dratted Elf? He tried to push the thought from his mind and found Arwen looking at him.

“I do not know what will happen today,” she told him, “But I cannot believe in my heart that I will never see my husband again.”

He smiled. “I am sure you will, Lady.”

She stood up. “It is time.” She held Eldarion in her arms, speaking quietly to him in Elvish, and then she brought him to an alcove in the room. Gimli was not entirely surprised to see her touch a panel, which opened a little bolt-hole. She placed him inside, kissing his face.

“Will you stay here, Lady?” Gimli asked, eyeing her sword thoughtfully.

“No more than you would,” she said with a gentle smile.

They walked together to the passageway, closing the nursery doors behind them. Gimli stood at their vanguard, flanked by his two Dwarves. The Elves stood behind, the two handmaidens having drawn their bows.

The time passed slowly, and yet when the moment came it seemed to have taken no time at all. The arrows began to fly past them, finding their marks in the horde of approaching orcs. Gimli braced himself, and raised his axe, but he found a moment to spare a thought for those soldiers he had left guarding the palace gates. He hoped they were not all dead. Some of them were his friends, and he had known them from the time of the War.

“Well, lads!” he yelled. “Give them something you can tell your grandchildren about!”

 

Legolas slid down the roof he was perched upon, holding two white knives. He had spent the last of the borrowed arrows, and now he leaped, and in that moment an iron arrow found its mark, burying itself deep within his shoulder. He cried out, missed the lower roof he had been aiming for, and fell to the cobbles in the alley below. 

It was the unluckiest moment imaginable. The last of the orcs had abruptly turned upon the remaining fighters once Burin had carried on ahead with the others; the fighting in the street was furious and bloody, and there was no one nearby to help the Elf. Mizim was in the next street unawares, the handful of Dwarves that remained were all fighting for their lives, and the archers on the roofs had been forced to duck for cover when the orcish archers had suddenly focused their attention upon them.

Mzagal, still watching from the roof, had seen all this in an instant. She hissed in alarm and sympathy, watching in horror as the Elf fell. Eyes darting left and right, summing up the situation in a moment, she found her decision made for her when three orcs broke loose from the fighting in the street to dart into the alley.

Before she even had time to realize it she had grabbed the drainpipe that hung vertically attached to the building and was sliding down. She landed heavily--more heavily than she had meant to--and grunted, barely keeping her balance as she hit the ground. She ran towards the group and swung her axe at the first orc, killing him instantly. They had not noted her approach and she had taken them by surprise: so far so good!

But there her luck fell flat. There were two left, and just like the others they were tougher and more canny than most orcs. They fell back out of reach of her axe at once as she stood over the Elf, grinning evilly at her.

She knew they meant to tire her out--darting in and out without giving her a chance to pause, or coming close enough to make contact. And they will, she thought. She had never been the cleverest or most skilled fighter. She was ‘adequate’ her old teacher used to say, but her genius did not lie in basic combat.

And she had the further disadvantage of needing to protect Legolas; she could not move too far in any direction. The orcs had her cornered, and they knew it, and time was on their side and they knew that too. She had not had time to examine Legolas closely or even glance back at him, but he had been lying prone when she first approached. 

The smaller of the two orcs was the bolder of the two. He was making sport of her, and she tried not to let cold fury overwhelm her and cloud her judgement. His blade kept coming close enough that she felt the breath of it upon her skin, though she knocked it aside each time. 

He’s going for my braids! she thought angrily, at the same moment scolding herself for allowing him to rattle her. Your braids won’t be worth a damn if he cuts your throat, lass! Pull yourself together!

There was no denying he was coming closer though, growing cockier, and his sudden scream startled her so much she nearly dropped her axe. It took her a moment to realize his scream was one of pain and rage, and then she saw the knife-handle sticking out of his foot, pinning him to the ground. The long blade had stuck through and was buried deep in the earth between the cobbles. She grinned and in another moment she had beheaded him.

“Still with us, Master Elf?” she called, without turning round.

“Yes,” came the thready reply, “though I am grateful for your intercession.”

Now there was just the big orc left--and a half dozen coming down the alley that had been drawn by the smaller orc’s scream. 

“Damn it!” said Mzagal, swinging wildly at the big orc, “MIZIM!”

Mizim, some several hundred yards away, heard the cry and looked around wildly. She could not see Mzagal, but she realized at once that the sound had come from the ground--not the roof!

“Oh, Durin’s BEARD,” she swore, dodging axes and tripping up an orc on her dash to the alley, “Burin will eviscerate me!” All at once she had remembered her promise. “Uri! Come here, damn you,” she yelled, seeing he was close at hand, and then she threw herself upon the nearest orc, knocking him to the ground and causing his fellow to stumble over him in the process. 

She had rolled to her feet again in a moment, swinging her axe in a wide arc that managed to injure or maim the three orcs that had converged upon her. She leapt from the fray to help Mzagal, who was fighting hard against one of the bigger orcs. 

“Legolas! What happened?” she asked when she spotted him lying behind Mzagal.

Mzagal stepped back to let her finish him off--feeling not at all guilty. She leaned upon her axe, breathing heavily. You mad child, Mzagal thought gratefully, thank Mahal you were close at hand. I thought that was the end of me. 

From the roof she had noted Mizim’s prowess, and up close it was no less impressive. She dispatched the big orc in under a minute, and then was running for the end of the alley to help Uri with the others.

She is certainly destined to become one of the best warriors of her generation, Mzagal thought. That will please her. Burin had grudgingly reported that Mizim’s fighting was good, but that her impatience often led her to make mistakes. Among older and more seasoned Dwarves perhaps, she thought, wiping sweat from her brow. When fighting orcs her improvisation is certainly an asset. 

Judging that things were in hand, for the moment, she crouched beside Legolas, balancing there with some difficulty. His arm and shoulder were dark with blood, and it had begun to soak into the ground around him. She tore a length of her tunic and brought it to his shoulder, where the arrow was still firmly embedded. He grunted when she pressed the cloth to the wound, his face drawn tight in pain, but he nodded at her.

“Their arrows are barbed,” she said. “We can’t pull it out of you. You’d bleed to death in a minute. We need to cut it out, and I don’t dare do that here.”

“I’ll be all right,” he told her, and she had to lean close to hear him. He smiled, and if he had been a Dwarf she would have said that he smiled crookedly. “I won’t die here, Mzagal.”

“Thank Mahal for that,” she replied lightly. “I don’t know what I’d say to Gimli.”

As soon as the words were out she wished them back--the orcs had been hell-bent for the palace. Suppose Gimli--even at this moment he could be--she stared hard at the wound, where her hands still pressed against the cloth.

She cleared her throat. “Have you broken anything? You fell a ways to the ground.”

He shook his head minutely. “I held--I controlled the fall. I landed fair. I’m all right, but for that.”

Mizim’s boots clattered down the cobbles to join them, and she fell to her knees at Legolas’s side. 

“Oh, are you all right, Legolas?”

“I will be,” he told her with a wan smile.

“Mizim, how many are left?” Mzagal asked, all business. 

“We’ve killed them all in the street, Mzagal! There’s an end to them at last. Shall I get the others to make for the palace?”

“We have to get him to the Houses of Healing. Help me get him up, Mizim.”

“I’ll be all right--” Legolas protested.

“Did you not say that you would obey my orders?” she asked witheringly, and he submitted meekly--though with his habitual hint of irony, Mzagal was relieved to note.

Mizim had noticed almost at once that Mzagal was limping, but she was not such a fool as to remark upon it. When they reached the street she called to Uri to take her place on Legolas’s other side. Dashing about she gathered together the wounded, and assembled the other fighters. They were standing about dazed, like sleepwalkers, looking bewildered now that the fighting was through.

She used her axe handle to knock upon a few doors. “Out, out!” she cried. “The orcs are dead! Come out, for goodness sake! We need food here, and bandages, and fifty pints of ale!”

There were a few chuckles at that, and as the grateful people began to open their doors, bringing the things she had asked for, she saw some color returning to the Dwarves and young Men and Women alike as food, water, and even the beer was administered. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to her other charges. Someone had brought out chairs for Mzagal and Legolas and the other wounded, and Mzagal nodded at her, an assessing gleam in her eye.

Mizim trotted over, and noted the young Man that had first spoken to them had reappeared, looking bedraggled but fortunately unharmed. Regrettably she could not recall his name. “Sir,” she said, sidestepping the issue entirely: he goggled at her, and she guessed he was not often addressed so.

“We need a wagon, for the wounded. We cannot make them walk all that way. Can you get one?”

“Aye! I mean--aye, sir!” the youth stammered, and ran off.

Mizim’s brow crinkled up in confusion, and Mzagal snorted. “You’ve an admirer,” she said, poking a finger into the younger Dwarf’s armor.

“Mzagal!” Mizim yelped, scandalized, leaping back from the accusing finger as if it had burned her.

Legolas barked out a painful laugh, and Mzagal was nearly doubled over by a fit of hilarity. 

“It isn’t funny!” Mizim said angrily, her dignity wounded. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know I’m a maid!”

Mzagal only laughed harder. “I meant--I meant--your _fighting!_ Mizim, he admired your fighting!”

“Oooh!” Mizim said angrily. The two of them kept on laughing in spite of their injuries, and she stamped her foot furiously, as if she were back home in Erebor being teased by her older brothers. With a scowl, pride still not recovered, she turned her back on them to await the boy’s return from the other side of the street.


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

The corridor was slick with blood, and nothing could be heard over the sound of clashing metal and orcish screams.  Gimli had not fought so hard in years, but he kept doggedly on.  If he faltered they would be finished.  There were only the six of them against how many orcs?  One hundred?  Two?  He had never minded such odds before, but knowing Arwen’s life hung in the balance, as well as the child, kept him grimly focused.    

The smell of their blood and filthy armor was everywhere.  It transported him back to the War; almost, he could smell the charred flesh, the dead bodies piled up on high biers on the plains outside the city.  It was as if no time at all had passed, instead of years.

“Give up Dwarf!” they taunted him.  “We’ll have the She-Elf before long!  Lay down your axe now and we’ll kill you quickly!  Keep on and we’ll let you live--long enough to watch us butcher her!”

The nearby orcs laughed appreciatively, but Gimli ignored them.  He kept Rhié on his right and Ghiâre on his left. They must keep this line. Arwen’s handmaidens still had arrows left, and though they were not so adept as Legolas their shots landed true.  

Even so they were being pushed back; already the orcs had forced them back ten, perhaps even fifteen feet closer to the doors of the nursery. They had killed three dozen at least, but more were coming.  All they could do was fight on and hope that aid would arrive in time.  

An unlucky strike knocked Rhié to his knees; Gimli grunted in alarm, but before he could act Arwen had darted forward; her sword flashed and the orc was dead; Rhié jumped up and fought on.

“My Lady!  Arwen, get back!” Gimli cried.

“No,” she said fiercely, and fought on.  

The orcs were mad with bloodlust to have her so close; they screamed in rage, crying for vengeance and spitting their filthy insults at her.  The din was deafening.  Arwen’s face remained hard and implacable, and she moved too swiftly for any of them to touch her.  Her sword was a mere silver flash in the air.

Gimli was torn between sheer terror for her and admiration.  He could not recall ever seeing her fight before, and she moved beautifully.  It was as if she had been born with a sword in her hand.

Arwen’s handmaidens came forward, swords drawn, having spent the last of their arrows.  Ghiâre cried out as his axe was knocked from his hands and kicked away from him.  He dodged the blade the orc aimed at his head and tackled him at the waist, knocking him to the ground, and then rolled away before any of the others could strike him.

As he stumbled backward one of the Elves put his axe into his hands; he stammered a surprised, “Thank you!” to her back as she lunged forward to deal with his attacker.

“Keep on, lads, keep on!” Gimli yelled.  They were not making any progress, but for the moment they were not being pushed back either.  It was all they could do to hang on, here--but a few minutes either way could be what made the difference.  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Houses of Healing.  The healers had known of the fighting in the city, and had been busy all the morning preparing for the wounded.  The battle raged on at the palace--even here, it could be heard--but the healers regarded it not.  They had their own fighting to do.  Mizim had watched them take Legolas away and then she had run off to find Mzagal, closeted with Azagh.  She saw at once that she was not wanted, and left before they could order her away.  

She was concerned for Mzagal.  After the battle of the gate, Mzagal had seemed tired but well enough.  On the short journey here she had taken a turn, growing pale, and seeming cold to the touch whenever Mizim had surreptitiously brushed her skin.

Shock, perhaps, thought Mizim, who had seen its effects before.  But it did worry her a bit.  Mzagal was always so tightly self-controlled, and she had let Mizim help her into the infirmary without even a token protest.

Mizim paced the hall, wondering what she ought to do.  It was for Mzagal or Azagh to bid her to go fight at the palace, or stay, but they were occupied.  She must decide for herself, and she did not know what best to do.

Chewing a fingernail, she asked herself, _Well, what would they_ want  _ me  _ _to do?_  Gimli was at the palace, and Burin, as well as the Queen and Eldarion and most of their people...  

It seemed her decision was made then.  Without telling anyone where she was bent, she ran out of the building to the courtyard.

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
“Mzagal, I do not have much knowledge of such matters!” Azagh protested nervously.  


“More than me, though,” Mzagal said, with gallows humor.

“Ah--did not you attend your mother?”

“My mother had no other child.  And I had no aunts.”

“Ack, I did know that.  I am forgetting.”

“Please, Azagh, I have none of my own people here.”

Azagh did not speak, but picked up the cloth and wet it to dab over Mzagal’s brow.  They were alone in the room; the wounded outnumbered the healers here, and Mzagal had not said to anyone that her case was urgent.  Now Azagh was growing apprehensive that it was very urgent indeed.

Mzagal gritted her teeth, and gripped Azagh’s hand.

“There is something I must tell you,” she hissed, when the pain had subsided.

“Listen, Azagh.  I was nearby when the Elf was struck.  There was no one to go to him.  I could not leave him in the alley to die.  I went down, but I landed too hard on the ground.  I have been bleeding since.”

Azagh blew out an expressive breath, his face warm with concern.

“If I die--”

“Mzagal!  Do not speak so!” Azagh said sharply.

“I do not say I will!  But if I should, you  must promise  me they will not hear of it.  You have been with me, all this time, and none of the others will know.  You must tell Burin and Gimli that it was the childbirth that killed me, and there was nothing could be done.  Let them know I took no other injury.  Now  promise  me, Azagh.”

“I promise,” Azagh said heavily.  “But you must make up your mind to live, Mzagal!”

To this Mzagal readily agreed, but in her heart she suspected the worst.  As soon as the heady rush of battle had been over her body had seemed to collapse in on itself.  She had felt very bad, and all at once the pain had come over her, frightening in its intensity.  She would have said she was as tough as any Dwarf, but this suffering was worse than she had expected.  When Azagh had helped her from her clothes and armor she had been stunned by the quantity of blood.  Worst of all she felt warm, and if the fever took her she would certainly die.  

_Oh Burin, I am sorry.  But I could not have done otherwise.  I could no more have left him there to die than I could have left you.  It would have been like killing Gimli with my own hands._

“Mzagal, I am going to fetch one of the healers,” Azagh said, and he went into the hall.  

It seemed he had hardly left before he was back again, bringing wine fragrant with the scent of crushed herbs.  

“Their midwife is coming,” Azagh said.

Mzagal nodded, sipping the wine gratefully.  But in spite of the pain and fear she prickled at the idea of having an unknown Woman attend her.  

“I did ask Ghia,” she said quietly, half to herself.  Ghia dwelt in the Glittering Caves with her husband; she had three sons already.  “She was to have come to stay with us.  We had arranged it all months ago.  But I thought I had more time.”


	16. Chapter 16

A tall snarling orc aimed an axe-blow at Burin that would have severed his leg just below the knee, had not he rolled just a hair’s breadth out of reach. He had been knocked down by the orc, in hard close fighting, and before he could get back to his feet a spurt of foul blood splashed across his face.

“Thpth!” he sputtered, disgusted, wiping his face. Someone grabbed his free hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Mizim!” he said, in surprise, and then the next moment, “Where is Mzagal!”

“Safe, Burin, never mind now, and you’re welcome,” she called over her shoulder as she dashed away, to engage another orc.

“I had things well in hand!” he cried back, nettled.

A few minutes earlier the noise in the room had been deafening; now there was sudden silence as the last orc in the great hall was defeated. Burin looked around, beginning to assess the wounded, when Mizim called out to him again.

“Burin, this is not all! Where are the rest?”

“What?”

“I watched hundreds of orcs pass by the bridge! There are a few dozen here, Burin, where are the rest?”

Before he could reply, a Man called out, “Sir! Lord Gimli went further into the palace--before the orcs broke through the doors, before you arrived--”

“Damn it,” Burin growled; already his mind was calculating the horror of lost seconds, wondering how long it had been. When he had arrived with the Dwarves the few surviving palace soldiers had been fighting the orcs here; he had been so caught up in the battle it had not occurred to him to wonder where Gimli or the rest of the orcs were.

“Burin, take the east wing!” Mizim said. That was where Gimli’s rooms were. “I’ll take some of the others to the other side of the palace.”

No time to argue; “Very well!” he said, and the remaining Dwarves and Men split themselves into two companies.

Mizim ran as fast as she could, not looking behind her to see who had followed. A sudden wretched thought had taken hold of her, and she would have fought a hundred orcs unaided. Eldarion and the Queen were also in the palace. 

Now the orcs’ desperate drive for the heart of the city, all but ignoring the unprotected people, made sense. If everything--the skirmish in Anórien--had merely been a ruse to get to the Queen and Eldarion--!

She knew her way about the palace now, and she did not falter. She turned a sharp corner, and there was the long stone corridor that led to the nursery. The orcs were like a roiling sea between two walls.

Heedless, she flung herself into their midst. They were pushing at each other, fighting and screaming so much so that her entrance into the fray was barely noted, and she was able to make a good deal of progress before any of them tried to engage her.

Behind her now she could hear the other Dwarves and Men had begun their fight; the orcs were slow to react, and those up ahead in the narrow corridor seemed unaware that any threat lay behind them.

Some of the orcs had noticed her at last, but she was too fast, too spry, and too clever for them to catch her. Many tried; she dodged and darted her way out of every corner. Practically from birth she had lived in the forges. Her family were all metal-workers and armorers, and she had always been especially light and quick on her feet, even for one of Gruin’s children. In some ways fighting was not so different. She had always had a sixth sense for where to be, where to move, and above all how to get out of the way. It did not desert her now. 

Between the legs of the orcs, as she crouched and slipped between them, she could see fighting up ahead. Some of her heartsickness left her at once, and all her natural optimism returned. She rolled right past the big orcs at the front into the protected circle by the nursery doors, easily parrying a half-dozen blows as she went. She landed almost precisely at Gimli’s feet.

He goggled at her for a moment, still managing to meet every thrust from the orcs he was fighting.

“Well met lad!” he said, as she got up, and squared herself right at his side.

It was clear to her that he was tired, so she did her best to bear the brunt of their attacks. Even so she could not hope to match his skill. She marveled at it, even when most of her attention was needed to keep the orcs from parting her head from her body. She had spent the last five years of her life hearing stories about Gimli's adventures, and in spite of their dire predicament she could not help but feel thrilled now.

_Only five years ago_ , she thought swinging her axe gleefully, _I was sitting by the fire in Erebor, listening to_ stories. _And now here I am, fighting at Gimli's side!_ It was undoubtedly the most dangerous hour of her life, but she was also nearly delirious with happiness.

She had noted with quick glances left and right that Rhié had been knocked at least unconscious--if he was not dead. One of the Elvish maidens fought in front of him. Ghiâre was on Gimli’s left--a plodding fighter but steady. Blood trickled from his temple, and he was slower to react than he should have been. 

Arwen knelt behind them, holding bloody cloth to the other Elvish maiden, who lay pale and grey beneath her mistress’s hands. Of Eldarion there was no sign; _Safe in the nursery, I pray!_ Mizim thought. 

The flags were sticky with blood, and the floor was growing treacherous. Once or twice Mizim saw Rhié nearly slip upon them, and she caught her breath each time. It seemed not _if_ the orcs would break their line, but _when._

The orc she was fighting crossed axes with her, so that she was unable to pull hers free. He pushed against her, hard enough to rattle her teeth in her head and she braced herself. He was grinning at her through jagged teeth, and his hot foul breath blew over her face.

“I’ll gnaw the meat off your bones after I kill you little Dwarf,” he hissed. 

“Not bloody likely,” she gritted back. 

She let go of her axe suddenly, and in one smooth motion stepped to the side. The force the orc had been exerting against her had nowhere to go and he fell forward, rolling and growling. She snatched up her axe and crushed one of his wrists beneath her boot before he could lift up his blade, and he howled in pain and fury. She drove her axe forward into his face, then dragged hard on it to pull it free. He was dead.

She whirled around--Gimli had been protecting her back while she had dealt with her foe, and blows were raining down upon him from all sides. Yelling the Dwarvish battle cry at the top of her lungs she dove back into the heart of the fighting.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time Burin and the others had realized there was no sign of Gimli or the orcs in the east wing, and made it back to the other side of the palace the corridor was a bloody melee. Even Burin, who considered himself a hardened warrior, was taken aback by the bloodshed. He was at once grieved for the fallen, even as he roared out an angry cry to join in the battle.

His eyes searched the bodies as he fought, praying not to see the face of his Lord among the fallen, and his chest was tight when he thought of how it had been Mizim--bold child! bright star!--that had led the charge here. If only he had spoken first, and said that he would come here. Rage and fear drove him down the corridor, fighting his way through the teeming masses.

His carelessness was rewarded; one orc nearly chopped his arm off, and another was successful in severing the bottom six inches of his beard. He scowled, doubly angered, but the wretched creature had the advantage of both height and weight, and like all the orcs he had encountered today it was among the strongest he had ever confronted. Orcs were not well-trained fighters, as a rule. Their numbers gave them their advantage. But these orcs were different--as tough and as terrible as had not been seen since the War of the Ring.

He was forced back another few feet. He knew he was tired--he had been up and fighting since dawn. He did his best to refocus his breathing, and center himself. If he started making mistakes he would not leave this hallway alive. Another orc came at him suddenly from his left side, and the next moment he was nearly surrounded; then someone came to fight at his back. 

“Obur!” he said, and the other Dwarf nodded a greeting, even as they circled back to back in the hallway to fight back the orcs. 

“Have you seen Mizim?” Burin’s axe clanged against an orcish blade. “Gimli?”

“Mizim ran to the front, sir. Gimli I have not seen.”

Burin nodded, but did not speak. Keeping their odd circling formation they were able to make a little progress. With each to protect the other’s backside the orcs could not overwhelm them. 

“It does not matter how many of us you kill,” the orc he was fighting told him. Its mouth was filled with metal blades, and it grinned at him, savagely attacking with its iron sword.

“More will come! We will be avenged! Filthy Dwarves! Filthy humans!”

Other orcs took up the cry, and the noise of their unholy cheers was ear-splitting.

“We’ll have the wench! We’ll have the child! Let the mighty king take hold of his barren kingdom then!” the thing laughed.

Cheers greeted this prophecy. Burin gritted his teeth and pushed forward; the thing pushed him back and knocked his helmet off, hard enough that it was thrown ten feet across the floor. He was parted from Obur and pushed backward, battered from all sides, and knocked down. He rolled to his feet, narrowly missing a metal-booted foot the orc had aimed at his face. He was knocked down again. He got up again, and the thing used the flat of its blade to hit the side of his head, and for a moment his vision swam with black dots. The orc laughed in his face.

_Get off your knees Burin, you detestable louse! he cursed himself._ With an effort he got up a third time, and the orc struck him again, knocking him back another three feet.

_He’s toying with me,_ Burin realized, staggering to his feet. _He knows I can’t kill him._ Burin was enraged, beyond all measure of what had come before. To die like this, weak prey killed for sport rather than in the heat of battle, was intolerable.

When the next blow came he kept his feet. _I won’t shame Mzagal and the child by dying at his mercy,_ he thought. _I’ll take a piece of him with me by Mahal!_

When the orc lunged forward this time Burin dropped his axe, and pulled his short knife from its sheath in his boot. Diving forward he drove his unprotected skull into the metal breasplate of the orc, knocking it back, and with his knife he found a vulnerable gap in its armor. His knife plunged in to the hilt; then all was darkness and he knew no more.

 

 

 

 

 

He awoke to water being splashed on his face; he sputtered, turning his head to the side, his head aching.

He couldn’t speak, and so he coughed instead.

“Oh, good, you’re not dead then!” Mizim said cheerfully. She dragged him up bodily by the shoulders and propped him against the wall.

“Here, drink,” she said, shoving a flask into his mouth. He gulped down three or four fiery mouthfuls before turning his head to the side, then he spat out blood and wine. 

“Vvhffffff?” he asked. 

“Gimli’s fine,” she said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Look.” Gently she turned his head towards the end of the corridor; he was relieved to see Gimli smoking a pipe, sitting comfortably upon a pile of his slain foes.

“Here, you won’t die in the next five minutes will you?” Mizim asked him. “I’ve got to go and see about the others.”

He nodded, and she stood up. The corridor looked like an abattoir. After the horrors of the morning it was difficult to believe that it could finally be over. But all the orcs that he could see were dead; the fighting had stopped. He stared, in dumbfounded disbelief, at the bodies and the destruction.

Mizim made her way down the corridor, kicking orcs here and there to be sure they had been properly dispatched. There was a dead Man she passed, and him she carefully rolled over, wiping his face with her handkerchief before folding his hands neatly over his chest. She covered her heart with one hand, and said a silent prayer to Mahal.

Then she continued down the hall. There was a Dwarf lying facedown, and her heart sank. No Dwarves had died at the battle by the bridge, but she supposed it would have been impossible to think they could have escaped entirely unscathed. She checked his pulse first, but there was no heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

Steeling herself, she took a breath and then rolled him over. “Oh…” she said in a quiet voice.

“Mizim!” Burin called sharply. He had been watching her all this time, but he was too far to see who it was.

“It is Obur,” she said in a curiously flat voice. “I had guard duty with him yesterday. I saw him this morning, in the city, it was he and I who found the dead guards in the tower, I--”

By this time Burin had hobbled to her side, and he flung a heavy arm around her shoulder. 

“He was with us. At your house, this morning, you and Mzagal and I. And Obur.”

“There is no more valiant death, than a good death in battle,” Burin said, speaking the familiar words with the solemnity of a priest.

“Yes, I daresay you are right,” Mizim said. Then she burst into tears.


	18. Chapter 18

She had shrugged off Burin’s comforting arm almost immediately, scrubbed at her face with a filthy gloved hand, and then gone off to find the Queen.

Arwen was in the nursery, alone, holding Eldarion to her breast. 

“What is it, Mizim?”

“Forgive me, majesty, but I do hope you will go to Mzagal at once. She was not very well when I left her, and that was over an hour ago.”

Arwen’s straight black brows went up in surprise, and very carefully she laid the child down.

“Of course I will go. Ought we to tell Burin? Should he not go to her?”

“Under no circumstances!” Mizim said, horrified; in spite of the morning’s dire work Arwen could not prevent a small smile from crossing her face.

“Would she not want him?”

“She’ll send for him, if she does, but I very much doubt it.” Mizim squirmed a bit; battle was one thing, discussing pregnancy--childbirth!--was quite beyond her. She edged around the room, closer to Eldarion.

“Will you stay with him, Mizim? He loves you. But--wash up first, my child!”

“Oh--yes, yes, sorry majesty!”

 

As soon as Gimli had rested a moment and smoked a pipe he was up and moving; those of his Dwarves that were relatively uninjured he began to shout at to tend to the wounded and drag out the corpses and otherwise make themselves useful. The Men, he was not very surprised to see, were quick to follow his orders as well.

He supposed, a little grimly, he was one of the more seasoned veterans here. He did not know how many of the palace Men, some of whom he had fought alongside during the War, had survived.

Mizim had disappeared, and one look at her face had warned him not to interfere. He only hoped it was nothing too bad.

Burin was still stumping around, looking like a vision of hell. He ought to be put to bed; Gimli wondered if he would go willingly or need to be dragged off.

“Burin, lad,” he called out, and Burin started and limped over to his side.

“My Lord?”

“Go and get a drink you look half-dead,” Gimli said bluntly.

Burin’s lip quirked up in a half smile. “But--”

“That’s an order, Burin. I can manage from here.”

Burin shook his head a little, still smiling, but he nodded and hobbled away. Gimli strode down the corridor to go and see about the state of things elsewhere; the dead must be tallied, the orcs’ corpses dragged to the plains and burned before they could bring plague upon the city, the traitors--(for he had no doubt there would be traitors; how else to explain the orcs’ sudden violent appearance in the city, their knowledge of the palace layout?)--rooted out and dealt with.

“My Lord Gimli!”

“Mizim! Lad, are you all right?”

“Yes, well enough. Only I thought you should know, Legolas was wounded in the battle.”

“Tch!” He had wondered, at the Elf’s missing presence at the final battle in the hall. “Bad?”

Mizim shook her head. “Not so bad, I don’t think. He took an arrow, in his arm, and he was brought to the Houses of Healing, with the other wounded. The Queen has just gone there now, to see about...well, she’ll tend them all, I’m sure.”

Gimli sighed. How often, it seemed, that his heart wanted one thing but his duty lay elsewhere!

“Thank you, Mizim. I’ll go and see him later.”

Mizim nodded, looking chagrined and apologetic, and ran off.

 

 

 

Legolas blinked in the dying sunlight. Arwen had given him a draught, some hours past, and his mind had wandered. The whole day had passed by in a few minutes. He felt drowsy, but tired of sleep. 

The door opened.

“Are you a dream?”

“No, I think not.”

“Then I am glad to see you looking so well,” Legolas smiled, lifting up his uninjured arm to take the Dwarf’s hand. “I have seen no one, since Arwen left me. Even little Mizim, who I thought my friend, has abandoned me.” A sudden alarmed thought crossed his face. Legolas cried, “Do not say she--!”

“No, no!” Gimli squeezed his friend’s hand reassuringly. “She is as hale as ever. They have given her a nickname already; she is to be Mizim the Mighty.”

Legolas laughed. “That will please her.”

“Aye, and go straight to her head, but there it is. Songs must be sung and tales must be told, and they will have their heroes.”

Legolas smiled. “What other news, then?”

“Mzagal has had her babe.”

“Ah! She is well? The child too?”

“Aye, aye, as far as I could tell. They would not let me see her, but Azagh says they are ‘very fine.’ Do you know the child is to be called after him?”

Legolas shook his head.

“Yes. He is very pleased; he has no children of his own, and he is fond of Mzagal.

“Some Men have been brought forward, as the leaders of the conspiracy.” Gimli sighed. “What dark things they do to each other, Legolas. Such treachery--! They say they plotted only to kill us and drive us from the city--that the orcs swore no harm would come upon the Men of Minas Tirith. They made a deal with them, showed them the secret entrance and left the way unbarred. Instruments of their own bloody destruction!”

Gimli snorted. “Poor devils, d’you know, I believe them? I’ve never seen such wretched creatures. When they understood that the orcs’ real goal was to kill the Queen and the Prince--well, it is for Aragorn to mete out their punishment, when he returns. For now they are imprisoned.”

“All?”

“I think so. The Men are quick enough to cooperate with us now! There is no sympathy for the traitors.”

“All their jealousy and hatred towards you...and yet you Dwarves were all that stopped the slaughter of their people…”

“Evil is our common enemy. Some of the Men forgot that, but not all. There were many that fought alongside us.”

Legolas nodded, closing his eyes.

“Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m only tired...my friend, will you stay with me a while?”

“With all my heart,” Gimli said, coming to sit beside him on the bed.

 

Of course Mizim was sent to tell Burin of the good news. She was eager to go, because she knew she would be toasted until dawn.

After Burin had fallen asleep in the kitchens, one of his friends among the Guardsmen had found him and carried him off to an alehouse. The unwise barman had said that all the Dwarves of the city would drink for free that day; the poor man would probably be bankrupt by dawn, but in the meantime the place was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Men and Dwarves, and the barmaids were racing among them, trying to keep up with their orders.

Watching the activity from the palace, and seeing the spontaneous parties that had begun to break out once the city had been cleared of bodies and the fires lit on the plains, Mizim had begun to regret her decision to stay and mind Eldarion. It was not that he was bad company; but she did long to be celebrating too--!

When Arwen had returned at last, looking exhausted but satisfied, she had all but run from the room in her eagerness to be the first to bring the news to Burin.

“But--must you leave at once?” Arwen called after her.

“Forgive me, majesty, I must tell Burin the good news!”

Poor Burin was quite drunk already--really, it was too bad, with his injuries at all. He was sure to be sick for a week. But nevermind that--

“Hail Burin! Felicitations, you are a father!”

A tremendous cheer went up all along the bar; Burin’s companions--a mix of guards and Dwarves--clapped and hooted wildly, and more beer was called for. Someone passed Mizim a glass, which she took happily, and Burin regarded them all with a slightly bemused smile before passing out and slipping off of his stool. Kind hands caught him, and he was carried off to a corner to sleep on a pile of sacks.

 

Mizim woke up in the house of one of the guards, on a cot laid before the fire. The Woman of the house was feeding their child and seemed surprised when Mizim bounced up from her cot, perfectly cheerful, clearheaded, and ravenously hungry. But she was pleased enough to cook eggs and sausages and fried bread with honey for the Dwarf before Mizim went on her way.

Mizim shared rooms in a small stone house with two other Dwarves, though she spent hardly any time there and used it mainly as a place to change clothes between her mad scramblings about the city. The three of them had little enough in common save that they were three female Dwarves close in age; Adnöa had trained as clerk and engineer, and Diá was a stone-carver of some skill. Some unkind tongues would have it that Adnöa was an old maid, but this was more for her sourness than her age, for she was scarce fifty years older than Mizim.

Diá was closer to her own age, being only eighty, but although they bore some affection for each other Mizim scarcely saw her from day to day. Their duties kept them in different parts of the city. 

It was clear from Mizim’s cheerful whistling and the absentminded way she stamped the dirt from her boots that she had not spared a thought for her friends since last they had met. All had turned out well for Mizim; she assumed with perfect naievete that Diá and Adnöa were well. 

When she entered the house she saw Adnöa first; the older Dwarf had a dreamy look on her face and Mizim stopped in amazement. She had a loom (where on earth had she gotten that! She must have borrowed it from one of the Women!) and she was weaving a beautiful brightly colored cloth. 

“Why, hello Adnöa! Felicitations!”

Adnöa turned bright red, stopping her weaving at once, and her habitual look of sourness returned. 

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean! Pray excuse me!” she snapped, and stomped up the stairs to the rooms above.

Mizim watched her go with amusement. Diá had heard Mizim’s voice, and was racing down the stairs at just that moment; she spared a glance for the older Dwarf but did not slow her step.

“Mizim! Are you all right?”

“Of course I am,” Mizim said, ducking out of Diá’s embrace. She hated being mothered. “Is there any water? I only came home for a bath, then I’m off to the palace.”

“What a wretch you are! You still have some orc blood on you! For goodness’ sake, Mizim, the last orc in the city died a day ago, what have you been doing all this time?”

“Errands for the lords and ladies and kings and queens, my dear Diá!” she replied with puffed up importance. “Now, what’s this with Adnöa? Who is it?”

Diá grinned. “Ah, that’s the secret,” she said. “She hasn’t breathed a word of it to me.”

“She’s weaving some courtship gift, I suppose. I have never seen her weave, have you?”

“No, indeed! She’s awfully good, I could never make anything half so well. I wonder she hasn’t done so before.”

“Well, you must have some idea,” Mizim said, returning to the other subject. She had already begun stripping off her clothes and armor, dropping them carelessly on the floor while Diá followed behind, gathering them up. 

She had been heating water for her own bath, but this she generously gave up with sisterly forbearance. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Diá said, transferring the hot water from hob to tub, and then belied this statement by naming half a dozen potential suitors.

“Shall I do your hair, Mizim?”

“Thanks, Diá,” Mizim said carelessly, and they had a lovely gossip while Diá combed and braided her hair.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for the long delay. If I told you everything that happened to me this last year you'd think I was making it up, I swear :P My life is a soap opera, basically, and if that sounds fun I totally promise IT ISN'T! I have just been doing my best trying to keep my head above water and surviving. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this latest chapter. It's close to being finished, although I won't promise any kind of timeframe, considering if I do with my luck something RIDICULOUS will happen (like my long-lost evil twin turning up to impersonate me and sleep with my husband). So let's just hope I can finish it soon and leave it at that :P
> 
> Also I am 40+ weeks pregnant as of this very moment. Baby, please come out now. I am so done with this.

The day of the feast. Legolas spent the morning in his favorite garden. The palace and city bustled in preparation for the festivities, but he had crept out in the early pre-dawn to be alone. He would have to leave the city soon, he knew. Or at least that was what he ought to do. Gimli had nearly recovered. His own arm was better; still weak, but it had come out of the sling. The evil that threatened was diminished, if not forever vanquished. What reason had he to stay?

“Legolas!” the child Mizim called to him. Her hair was ornately braided this morning, but she wore a plain tunic and jerkin. He supposed she would change into her finery later; she and all the Dwarves had been given silver embroidered clothes bearing Aragorn’s emblem. Legolas had observed the furious pace of the palace women at their needlework, all overseen by Arwen herself. Even Mzagal’s new child had been remembered; he had seen the blanket bearing the white tree draped over the infant’s crib.

“I knew you’d be here!” she said.

“Am I so predictable?”

She grinned at him. “Gimli sent me to find you,” she said, dropping gracelessly to sit beside him in the grass . “He and the others are in the palace...everyone is talking about what speeches are to be made at the feast.

“Or at least, that is what they are supposed to be doing. Actually, they are arguing.”

Legolas laughed. “It seems an inevitability when enough Dwarves are brought together.”

“Aye. You don’t even need more than one! A good Dwarf can argue perfectly well with himself, you know.”

They walked back to the palace together, Mizim chattering away. Legolas murmured an assent or a question periodically, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts. At last they reached a palace room Legolas knew was often used for meetings by the King’s councillors. Raised voices were audible through the wooden door; Legolas raised an eyebrow at Mizim and she grinned at him.

“I’ll leave you here, my Lord! I must attend my other duties.”

She seemed pleased to go, however, and was bold enough to wink at him before departing. Shaking his head he opened the door. Gimli sat at a wooden table, surrounded by perhaps fifteen other Dwarves, though not all were sitting and in fact two stood over by the window. He knew nearly all by sight now, if not by name, but he quickly saw that though Burin and Azagh were here his other friends were missing. 

Perhaps Mzagal was not invited, he thought, looking over the dour group. Or perhaps she had had the good sense to stay away!

Though the various arguments he could hear were impassioned he did not think they were particularly heated. Gimli saw him then, and waved him over with a smile. He took the empty seat Gimli indicated. 

“We have nearly finished,” his friend said. “Thank Mahal. Arguing all the morning about who is to speak first, and what order of precedence we must take! It is maddening.”

Legolas smiled. “I suppose this was to appease the Dwarves who arrived yesterday from Erebor,” he said very softly. 

Gimli rolled his eyes and nodded. The unexpected delegation had arrived yesterday. Though of course pleased to hear of the Dwarves’ heroic defense of the city in the absence of the King, the Dwarvish “ambassadors”--if so they could be called!--had found countless offenses to disapprove of, from the new city layout the Dwarves had planned with the King’s own engineers, to the design that had been chosen for the rebuilt city gates. And that was saying nothing of the behavior of the Dwarves dwelling within the city.

Though he was already being called Lord of the Glittering Caves by the colony of Dwarves that had followed him south to Rohan, Legolas had gleaned enough from Dwarvish talk over the years to know that not all the Dwarves in Erebor were pleased by this. King Thorin had approved of Gimli’s plans to form his own colony, and aid in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. But even the approval of the King had not been enough to silence all of Gimli’s critics.

“They insist, and make demands, which we will not acquiesce to. They cannot understand why Aragorn will not seat all the Dwarves together and instead bids us sit amongst his own people; they take it as an insult, when it is meant as a compliment. They are angry Aragorn has clothed us in his own colors, though of course it is a great honor. They disapprove of our speeches. And so on!”

Legolas looked at him sympathetically, and was about to speak when Gimli turned to look down the table and frown.

Legolas had caught the offhand remark, but made little of it “I suppose the Elf sits at his left side,” a Dwarf had said. By themselves the words were not offensive, but the tone was distinctly insolent.

“Aye,” another Dwarf sitting closer to Legolas and Gimli retorted loudly, though the comment had not been directed at him. “And I’d sooner sit at his left hand than yours, Grinâh!”

Five of the Dwarves in the room were delegates of Erebor; the other ten were loyal to Gimli. In the ensuing explosion those five had no hope at all; Legolas was soundly defended, warmly--too warmly, Legolas thought, glancing at Gimli uncomfortably.

It was as if Grinâh had insulted--had insulted Gimli’s , _consort_ and not merely his friend.

“SILENCE!” Gimli roared, springing up from the table. His dark look took in every Dwarf present, not merely the unfortunate Grinâh. “Leave us,” he growled, and Legolas was stunned to see them all troop silently from the room, without a word of protest. Only Azagh looked back, apologetically, at Legolas.

Gimli did not speak at first. He stood looking at the closed door, balling his fists, for several long moments.

Legolas walked slowly to the window, burning with shame. There was no doubt that Gimli had been insulted--but not just by the Erebor Dwarves. He had been angry with his own people as well. 

Legolas had begun to think of the Dwarves as his friends. Those occasional insinuations--that he felt some warmer emotion for Gimli than friendship--had always disconcerted him, but he had never believed them to be meant cruelly. Yet he had misunderstood so much--had he misunderstood this as well? Had they only been mocking him, then, when he had thought that they shared the joke with him? Had it been at his expense all this time? It must be so. How else to explain Gimli’s shocked anger, not just with Grinâh, but with them all?

Gimli knew then. He knew of the love Legolas bore for him. He had known and had shown him kindness--had said nothing. 

There was no hope left for him. In time Gimli would marry and sire heirs, and the thin sliver of his life that was left to Legolas would grow smaller and smaller, until only crumbs remained. At last his mortal life would be spent.

A thin paucity of life it would be for Legolas. And yet when he thought of the sea in that moment his heart was stony and cold; no, he would not, could not leave these shores while Gimli lived. Torment and grief he could bear; but not a life without his friend. So be it.

Uncertainly Gimli approached him.

“They meant it kindly,” he apologized. There was a hesitation in his voice that an untutored ear might have mistaken for gruffness, but Legolas knew better.

“Did they so?” Legolas asked, as if unconcerned with the answer. His chagrin made his voice harsher than he had intended, and Gimli flinched beside him.

“I swear it, Legolas, though it might not seem so. In truth...if you must blame someone, you ought to blame me. I did not check them as I might have. It seemed...I did not know how to explain the truth to them. I am sorry.”

Legolas nodded indifferently. He did not care much for explanations. It was not what the Dwarves had said that had injured him--but what it had meant. He had begun to hope--the things the others had said in passing had allowed him to hope--in the fullness of time--

But that was all at an end.

“You are not angry with me?” Gimli asked, the words sounding clumsy on his lips.

Legolas smiled faintly, but did not turn his head. “Of course not. It is only that...I did not know, and I--I had begun to allow myself to hope.”

“Begun to hope,” Gimli repeated, as if the words were in a language foreign to him.

“I did not know--your feelings. I thought perhaps--but I see now, you were being kind to me, and sought to spare me pain. Forgive me, for not understanding sooner.”

“Ah,” Gimli said, but he sounded puzzled. Legolas turned his head to glance at him, but saw the Dwarf’s expression was merely thoughtful. He turned back to gaze out of the window over the city. 

What now? he wondered dully. He supposed he ought to go to his own rooms, to dress for the feast. Yet he did not move, and neither did his companion.

Gimli took his hand and Legolas returned the warm pressure unthinkingly. 

“Legolas, come here a moment,” he said.

Legolas turned, and Gimli clasped his neck with his other hand to pull him close; then he kissed him fiercely.

It was an extraordinary moment. So far from Legolas’s imaginings, so far indeed from the despairing thoughts that had overwhelmed him, he could not at first respond.

Even in the moment it was happening he could not believe it.

“Gimli…” he thought, bewildered, and yet his body had understood. It was his body that answered before his mind had made sense of what was happening. His hands were already in that thick russet hair, and it was the shocking softness of it that finally made him believe that what was happening was real.

As soon as he began to return the kiss, to open his mouth and yield to that ferocious pressure Gimli’s hold on him changed; he was pulled tighter. “Good!” Gimli had seemed to say, wordlessly, and he could not help smiling between kisses. 

They did not speak for some time; perhaps that was for the best as words so often seemed to cause them trouble. When at last there was conversation between them it was Gimli who spoke first.

“My neck aches,” he complained. “You are too tall.”

“I suppose I could get you a ladder,” Legolas replied thoughtfully. If he leaned down only a little he could rest his chin upon Gimli’s head; he did so now.

“Why, in Mahal’s name, did you not speak!” Gimli demanded. “We’re Dwarves. We’re used to not getting what we want. I thought Elves spoke more freely!” 

This, Legolas felt he must aver. “Apparently every Dwarf in Arda knows I love you, but you did not. Therefore we must conclude that you are a fool.”

Gimli laughed then, as loud and delighted as Legolas had ever heard him. “Well, if I have been a fool then at least I have been in good company.”

 

 

 

The knock, somewhat diffidently, was repeated. On the second or third time Gimli had noted it, and might have even been able to understand what it was, had not Legolas been kissing his way across his throat at the time.

“My Lord?” the muffled voice inquired. “It is nearly time for the feast. Do you require assistance?”

Gimli gazed at the ceiling in amazement, his thoughts disordered. What new wonders the world did hold today! Legolas lay half-naked in his bed and a door was speaking to him!

In another moment that other, older, part of his brain had caught up to him, and roughly taken charge, grabbing him by the neck and shaking him with cries of, ‘Dishonor! Disobedience! Madness! For shame!’

“Legolas!” he hissed, pushing the Elf off of him. 

“I am fine!” he called back, looking wildly about the room for his tunic and surcoat. “I--er, I’ll be out in--just a minute.”

Legolas watched him in wild-eyed bewilderment from the bed. “Where are you going?”

“To Aragorn’s feast,” Gimli gritted out. “At which we are the _guests of honor!”_

Legolas watched Gimli fly about the room, upending furniture and weapons in search of his clothes. Apparently having decided that the Dwarf was in earnest and would not be dissuaded he sighed and rose from the bed, picking up a clean linen under-tunic and offering it to his friend.

“Shall I help you dress?” the Elf asked.

Gimli glared at him. “No!”

Justly chastened Legolas silently offered him the rest of the finery that had been laid by for that evening’s celebration. He watched sadly as the Dwarf dressed, covering up more and more of his bare skin, until he was handsomely clothed from head to toe. Even the thought that he might later undo all that good work did not cheer him, for that was hours away. Indeed, if the feast lasted all night it might not be until the morrow.

He sighed, too loudly, and Gimli turned to glare at him again. “Out!”

“A kiss? Before I leave?”

“Out! Do not let me see you again until dinner, Elf, or you shall regret it!”

Thus rebuked, the lover departed (though not before allowing himself a mournful lingering glance which was met with frank Dwarvish ire) to exchange his everyday leathers for the embroidered grey silk suit that had been prepared for him. 

 

 

_This bloody feast,_ thought the angriest and most miserable Dwarf in Aragorn’s great hall that night, _will be the death of me._

Obediently, Legolas had not reappeared until it had been time to assemble for the procession. They had not spoken--they were not to be seated together, this evening--but Gimli had seen him.

He was almost too lovely to look at, wearing a silk tunic and leggings in colors that Gimli had noted he particularly favored for feast days and celebrations. These were fashioned in an almost pearl-colored grey, and embroidered with delicate Elvish leaves and flowers.

Gimli was irrationally irritated with him. What right had he to look so calm and lovely and unperturbed? Why was he not suffering, as Gimli was suffering?

In accordance with the special provisions of the evening, Men and Dwarves had been separated whenever possible; a grizzled soldier sat on Gimli’s left side, and a young boy, who seemed overwhelmed to the point of near-muteness on his right. The boy was Htafal, the Man Ennal. Dargl sat on Ennal’s other side, and Mizim was to the boy’s left.

Mizim kept up a cheerful flow of conversation that covered any lapses on the boy’s side, or her other neighbor’s; the man Ennal was full of questions about the battles Gimli had fought in the War. At any other time no questions could have been sweeter to an old campaigner’s ears, nor an audience more charming than a fresh one, but Gimli was distracted to the point of near-rudeness. 

He was not rude, of course, he had been brought up better than to forget himself at a feast, of all days! But though he kept his neighbor amused and entertained his mind was elsewhere, and the tales he told were ones he could have proclaimed in his sleep. Even so Ennal and Htafal and even Mizim and Dargl were craning their necks close to hear him. On any other night it would have been delightful. Dratted Elf, he thought crossly, glaring across the long banquet tables to where he could see the sparkling figure of his beloved, seated between Mzagal and a Lady that waited upon the Queen.

At last, some two or three hours after the feast had begun, and after the conclusion of the speeches (and not a moment too soon, either, Gimli thought. Old Feargl had been so disgracefully drunk he had fallen off of his chair mid-sentence!) Aragorn gave the sign that they might ‘turn the tables,’ that is, the formal part of the evening had ended and the guests might move freely among their neighbors. Gimli noticed with amusement that some of the Ladies present here withdrew, but that Arwen was not among them. She had been seated with two of the visiting dignitaries (poor Arwen!) but by what he could observe from his side of the table she was in a fair way to making conquests there.

Aragorn had asked him, days earlier, if he should like to be seated with him at the feast, but Gimli had demurred. 

“You saved my wife and child,” Aragorn had said, bemusedly. “You think you do not deserve the honor?”

“Aragorn, it was an honor to sit with you and the Elf by a lonely campfire in the wilderness, to follow you before you ever were King. There could be no greater honor for me than that. I was not the only Dwarf there that day, and I do not believe I was the bravest or even the boldest. There are many honors to be given; I wish you will share them among my fellows.”

Aragorn had grasped his hand affectionately; he had understood him, and they had both been satisfied. Aragorn had spent the evening sitting between the two youngsters that had defended the palace with Gimli. Ghiâre and Rhié, he thought, looking over at them now. They had been nearly as dumbstruck as poor Htafal at their good fortune.

Now that the tables had been turned the volume and noise of the hall had increased; minstrels played music and a few Dwarves and Men had made their way to the floor below the banquet tables to dance and talk; ale and wine flew freely, and Gimli thought with despair that the party would last til dawn, perhaps longer.

He glanced at Legolas; the Elf seemed engrossed in conversation with the Lady by his side, as if he had no engagement more pressing. A tall, blond-haired Man came to retrieve Htafal--the lad’s father or uncle, Gimli guessed--and Mizim took the seat he had vacated. 

“Are you all right, my Lord?” she asked him in concern. “You ate little--and drank less!”

He smiled at her, and took an obliging sip of his ale. “Food does not agree with me tonight,” he agreed. “Do not trouble yourself.”

She nodded, but looked unconvinced. What a wretch I am, Gimli thought, stroking his beard. To use a child so--in such a deceitful way! But now that the thought had occurred to him he found he could not rid himself of it; even the droning voice in his head crying on about duty and honor was silenced when he presented it with the image of Legolas--stripped of the pearl-grey silk.

“My child,” he said, in a voice pitched very low that only she could hear, “I would not give any offense here, this night, for the world. I did not like to leave the feast. But, I cannot deny my head aches tonight.”

“Lord Gimli!” she whispered back, her eyes saucer-wide, “there is no dishonor in that! Everyone knows you were gravely wounded, and you fought back the orcs before you were even healed! Indeed, you must take care--”

“Peace, peace,” he said, raising his hands. “I am not so bad!”

“Shall I fetch Azagh?” she asked.

“Under no circumstances,” he growled at her.

“Well,” she cast her eye about the hall. “Legolas, then! Indeed, my Lord, he is not yet healed himself--see, the wound pains him, I think, he has not used his left arm all night. I did note it earlier, and Arwen only said he might take off the sling yesterday.

“He would not be sorry to leave the feast, I am sure of it! There is no sense at all--in making yourselves more ill--if you feel unwell! Why, you could go back to your rooms and play hnefatafl!”

Hnefatafl! Gimli thought, affronted. What does she take me for, a greybeard of 300! He quickly remembered that he was supposed to be pretending to be ill, however, and he curbed his tongue.

“Well,” he said, pretending to consider it.

“Oh, you could so easily slip away! No one will remark it. And if any should ask for you, I shall tell them I saw you just now, with Lord So-and-So, and you must have just gone to the privy!”

“You are more devious than I ever imagined, Mizim! I shall remember never to trust you, in future,” he said, tugging lightly at one of her elegant braids.

She grinned at him, dimple showing behind the beard. “Shall I tell him then?”

“Aye, aye, you’ve talked me round. Wait until I’ve gone, then you may go. Tell him only to meet me in my rooms, that is enough.”


End file.
